Losing It
by jd517
Summary: A pre-quel set 2 years before Martin comes to Portwenn, exploring the events that led him to leave surgery and abandon London
1. Bloody Brilliant

Author's Note: This is a prequel, set in London about 2-3 years before Martin Ellingham comes to Portwenn. Martin, Portwenn, Doc Martin and everything else belong to Buffalo Pictures and I make no claims to anything.

Losing It

Chapter 1 – Bloody Brilliant

If you had inquired of the physicians, students and staff at St. Thomas's Hospital for their opinions on Martin Ellingham, nearly everyone would have agreed that he was a bloody brilliant surgeon. Not the bloke you'd turn to if you needed a shoulder to cry on, a lift to the airport, or a second chance at proving yourself. But if you or someone you loved needed the expert, steady hands of a vascular surgeon to repair delicate blood vessels, he was simply the best.

His reputation preceded him. The Midas touch, they called it – the way he had of fixing even the most desperate cases and doing it calmly and without fuss. Making it look almost easy. No problem seemed insurmountable when he applied his considerable brilliance and his talented surgeon's hands to the task.

His patients were in awe of him – constables and countesses, shop assistants and stock brokers, labourers and Labour MPs. He had treated the Queen's cousin and the Prime Minister's mother-in-law. He was not impressed by any of them, but applied his remarkable skills to their veins and arteries with equal vigor.

His peers envied his skills and his meteoric rise to be the youngest qualified vascular surgery consultant in the history of the hospital. The junior doctors and medical students longed to emulate him, even as they cringed at his acid tongue and biting critiques of their efforts. One or two even sought out his tailor in hopes of currying favor. Members of the surgical team admired his results and railed against his insistence on perfection in every aspect of every procedure. The ward sisters generally fell into two camps – those who froze and cowered as he swept into the room and those who rolled their eyes and ignored his blustering. Care managers and hospital administrators hated his patent disregard for protocol, even as they marveled at his dedication to his patients. Receptionists found him infuriating.

He was tireless. He was the first on his team to arrive and the last to leave, and a willing volunteer for weekend and holiday rotations. He taught students and lectured colleagues. He literally wrote the book on carotid stenting for medical students in the UK. He occasionally undertook clinical trials. But his life-blood was surgery. And for the socially awkward Ellingham, the operating theatre was where he felt most at home, at peace.

He rarely joined the banter in the changing rooms or the hallways about test matches, golf games, or plans for the week-end. He seemed to have few interests apart from his work, and even fewer friends. Once in a great while he would disappear on a mysterious holiday, but he rarely mentioned where he had been or what he had done there. Although cordial, he seemed uncomfortable and a bit standoffish at conference social events and department parties. It was only a desperate hostess who would prevail upon him to fill out a dinner party, given the likelihood he'd arrive with a peculiar gift, criticize the nutritional value of the menu, or insult one of the other guests, even without the benefit of wine.

He was rarely seen outside the hospital – in fact some of his students were convinced he emerged each day in his immaculate suit from digs somewhere in the bowels of the hospital's heating plant. And those who did see him somewhere else – browsing antiques in Portobello Road, attending a concert in the Albert Hall, comparing espresso machines in the cookware department at Harrod's – rarely had the nerve or the inclination to approach him. The concept of his having a real life, being human in some way, disturbed them.

There were rumours of course. And, given that at least a couple of the doctors on staff had known him since medical school days or even before, there was probably a kernel of truth to some of them. But no one could quite picture him as a bullied bed-wetter at a posh public school, as some had reported. And the idea that his heart had been broken by a red-headed Canadian gynaecologist seemed even less believable.

In fact he was devoted to his profession. He took his responsibilities to his patients with deadly seriousness and he considered surgery the highest of callings. He held himself and everyone around him to nearly impossible standards, and was exceedingly displeased if those standards were not met. He did not suffer fools.

He had a handful of close friends, mostly from medical school. They checked in by e-mail mostly these days, and shared the occasional meal. He was estranged from his parents and had no other real family. Occasionally a tentative bond might form between him and an ambitious student or a star-struck nurse. They might have a coffee at the café across the street now and again. He might even invite one or two for dinner. But he never joined the pub crawls or late night pot-lucks organized by the students that built the informal social networks among the medical staff.

Odd duck, they called him. But such a bloody brilliant odd duck.


	2. Blood Relations

Author's Note: In one scene, I have incorporated some medical slang used in UK hospitals from Dr. Fox's article on that subject. "GROLIIES" stands for "Guardian reader of limited intelligence in ethnic skirt". "Handbag positive" refers to an older woman often found in her hospital bed still clutching her handbag. A "derma-holiday" is a transfer to a dermatology rotation, perceived by doctors-in-training as a less strenuous rotation.

Losing It

Chapter 2 – Blood Relations

There was nothing about that rainy Wednesday morning to indicate it would be different from any other. In his Kensington flat, Martin awoke automatically at 4:28, two minutes before his alarm was due to ring. He rose promptly, without lingering, and did a few brisk calisthenics in his pyjamas to get the blood moving. He checked his pulse to make sure he had gotten the appropriate benefit before heading to the lavatory. He performed his morning ablutions with the same scrupulousness he would use later in the day when scrubbing up to perform surgery. There was precision and economy in all of his motions, as though these tasks were performed by rote in exactly the same way, day after day.

After dressing carefully in the suit, shirt and tie he had selected the previous night, he made the bed, shut the window, and tidied the room before heading to his sleek modern kitchen. With implements laid out like sterilized surgical tools, he efficiently boiled his egg, brewed his coffee, made his toast, and peeled his orange. He made a brief detour to the front door of the flat for the post and the newspaper before sitting down at his spotless, glass-topped table to eat his breakfast.

By quarter to six, the dishes were in the dishwasher and the table cleaned of any crumbs. He booted up his laptop to ascertain whether there had been any changes to this morning's schedule. There was only one change – an overnight admission in A&E had been put on his schedule for endovascular carotid stenting. Satisfied that the day was well in hand, he took a moment to scan the sole personal e-mail in his box and was pleased to see his friend, Chris Parsons, was coming up to London for a conference in a couple of weeks. He shot him a quick reply that he would be glad to meet for dinner after the Saturday session.

After shutting down the laptop, he donned his fawn trench coat and left the flat for the hospital. He pulled his dark blue Jaguar into his assigned spot in the consultant's car park at half six exactly.

By seven fifteen he was making his rounds in the company of a gaggle of registrars, house officers and medical students to check his pre-operative cases. He looked impressive in his white coat, under which you could just see his smart blue shirt and subtle striped tie. His shoes and his cuff-links gleamed. He stopped at each bed, perused the patient's notes, and gave a brief review of the relevant procedures for the benefit of subjects and students alike. He answered each patient's questions, and those of their assorted family members and miscellaneous hangers-on, with as much patience as he could muster. Being Martin, that was not really much patience at all.

Last on his list was a Mrs. Marion Clark, 62, a waitress of Jamaican extraction, who was scheduled to have an artery in her lower leg repaired to increase blood flow to her foot. The decreased circulating was aggravating a severe diabetic foot ulcer and it was hoped this procedure would be sufficiently successful to prevent ischemia and the amputation of her lower leg. She was on the schedule for one p.m., assuming his morning went smoothly.

As he came on the ward, a timid-looking brunette nurse approached him warily.

"Mr. Ellingham? Are you here for Mrs. Clark?"

"Yes – the list says bed 3, correct?"

"That's right. But before you see her, I wanted to let you know that she is extremely anxious about this procedure. Is there anything you can do to reassure her?"

"Nothing for her to be too anxious about. This is a routine procedure. I'm sure you've told her she has nothing to worry about."

"Well, we've been over the details of the procedure with her of course, and with her family, but I think she might be more confident hearing it from you."

"Right, then, I will keep that in mind." With that Martin strode down the row to bed 3. As he did, he ran through the diagnosis and surgical plan briefly with his disciples. He overheard one, a brash, newly-minted registrar called Hugh Percy, snigger to one of the students. "Now that's a GROLIIES if I ever saw one. And handbag positive to boot."

Martin had never liked Percy or his cavalier attitude towards surgery. Self-assurance was a necessary skill for a surgeon, but Percy's cockiness was the sort that leads to mistakes - mistakes a surgeon cannot afford to make. He needed to be brought down a peg, and Martin saw this as the opportunity.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Percy. Would you care to repeat that for the benefit of the group?"

The younger man did not back down. "Just giving the newbie a lay of the land." He was almost preening. Martin gave him a look of disgust.

"You have just insulted the age, gender, intelligence, politics and ethnicity of our patient without ever having met her. That sort of behavior may be tolerated down in the A&E department. I, however, am a surgeon. By your presence here, I trust that it is your ambition to become one as well. I expect you to treat my patients, our patients, with the dignity and respect they deserve. And Percy, if I ever hear you use that kind of language about a patient in my presence, you will be on a permanent derma-holiday. Have I made myself clear?"

Percy reddened. Not embarrassed but angry. Martin ignored him and proceeded to Mrs. Clark's bedside. As he approached, Martin noticed there was an older man, graying at the temples, wearing an old but well-pressed suit, holding Mrs. Clark's left hand. Martin made a mental note – husband. On the other side of the bed was a woman he judged to be in her late fifties, wearing an orange jumper, holding the patient's right hand. Sister, most likely, Martin mused, too old to be a daughter. A strapping younger man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, leaned against the wall near the head of the bed and had a hand on Mrs. Clark's shoulder. He wore jeans and trainers and a grey hoodie. Without the tear stains on his cheeks, he would have looked menacing. Son, Martin mused.

He immediately took the notes from the end of the bed to check her vitals and make sure that his pre-operative orders had been followed. When he looked up, he saw Mrs. Clark looking at him fearfully. "Mrs. Clark. I'm Mr. Ellingham, your surgeon. We'll be repairing the artery in your lower left leg today." She nodded but said nothing. Martin lifted the blanket and began to examine the foot. He could see the importance of improving circulation immediately – the only other alternative would be amputation and that would be a whole different story for this patient. The students gathered around him as he examined the leg. He showed them the foot ulcer and drew a circle on the patient's leg with his finger to indicate where they would be working later in the day. Mrs. Clark was quivering.

"Have you any questions then, about your operation?" he asked her.

"Doctor, can ya, I mean, do y'think ya can, save m'foot with this?" she asks, anxiously.

"Well there are no guarantees in medicine, but the procedure we're performing today is the standard tool to improve circulation in cases like these. It should greatly increase the blood flow to your foot and that should have a positive impact on the ulcer."

"But, Doctor, they tole her that the next option is cuttin' the foot an' ankle off altogether. D'ya think ya'll need to do that? Are ya thinkin' ya'll be doin' that today then?" asked the older man – the husband. The woman beside the patient, the putative sister, sobbed at this point and clutched Mrs. Clark's hand between both of hers.

"No decision about amputation will be made today. We will need to wait a few days or even a week and see the effect the increase in blood flow has and track the progress in healing the ulcer. If an amputation is required, I would not be the consulting surgeon as that procedure lies outside my subspecialty. But I see no reason to expect that we won't have a positive outcome from the surgery today."

"Beggin' y'r pardon, mon, but what does that mean, exactly? Is she keepin' her foot or not?" said the son, angrily. "It's m'mum y'r talkin' 'bout, mon. Tell us y'r not cuttin' off 'er foot."

Martin sighed. "No, I am not cutting off her foot. No one is cutting off her foot today. It is too soon to tell if that will become necessary later. For now, she will come to my operating theatre this afternoon and I and my team will do our best to improve the circulation in her lower limb so that amputation is not necessary." Martin looked next at the clock on the wall behind the nurses' station and saw that it was eight twenty-five. He was anxious to move on.

"Anything else you'd like to know, then?" he said, turning to go as he said it.

"Just one thing," said the sister, in tones more clipped that that of her nephew. Martin turned back, slowly, facing her. He nodded to her to indicate he was listening. "You're the one going to do this operation, right? The lady I clean for, she says you are the best one; the one that fixes all the posh people. When I told her you was the one Marion was having for a surgeon, she told me don't worry then, he's the best one."

"Yes, I am her surgeon. I'll be performing her operation." Martin was uncomfortable with the praise, even now unused to it.

The sister nodded. "We'll be countin' on you, then," she said, looking straight at Martin, as if to memorize his face.

Martin nodded again, and then turned to go, gesturing to his entourage to follow along as he headed to the hallway. He paused at the nurses' station to leave a note for Mrs. Clark's anesthesiologist about the anxiety he had observed. As he did, he saw one of his students, Ms. Singh he thought her name was, put a hand on Mrs. Clark's bed and say something too softly for him to overhear. The husband and the sister nodded and he thought he saw a glimmer of a smile on Mrs. Clark's face. Ms. Singh walked past him without meeting his eye on her way to the lifts. Martin's last sight before he walked off the ward to follow her was Mrs. Clark being hugged by her son.


	3. Blood and Guts

Author's Note: Thanks to Griffin Star for help "translating" my Americanisms. Any that remain are solely my fault.

I am not a doctor and I don't play one on TV, so I apologize to any medical professionals reading for the pathetic nature of my attempts to describe surgery. Thanks to the readers for sticking with me through the medical jargon. Here is the glossary for this chapter:

A&E Department: Accident and Emergency.

Gasser: Slang for Anaesthetist (UK equivalent to US anesthesiologist).

AAA or triple: Abdominal Aortic Aneurism – weakened walls of the aortic artery in the abdomen, causing a bulge. If it ruptures, death is nearly immediate in up to 90% of cases. One measuring 5 cm or more is generally considered serious.

Intubate – insert the breathing tube for a patient under general anesthesia.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 3 – Blood and Guts**

Martin walked into the operating theatre like a conductor approaching the podium – expecting all the players to be tuned up and ready to go with their instruments in hand and their music on the right page. He had left his well-cut suit and hand-sewn tie behind in his locker, and was now dressed in the uniform of the day – the ubiquitous blue scrubs, rubber clogs, cap and mask, topped off with sterile gloves and a sterile gown wrapped around him in the prep room by the senior surgical nurse. He was relaxed and in control, and looked like the lord of all he surveyed.

Like a maestro, he nodded first to his concertmaster – in this case his consulting anaesthetist – perched on a stool at the patient's head. Dr. Hope Fairfax, an ethereal pixie with a blonde plait down her back, nodded in response and began to intubate the patient whom she had already helped into unconsciousness with a cocktail of sedatives, analgesics, muscle relaxants and anti-anxiety agents through an intravenous drip. Martin couldn't have told you her Christian name and certainly wouldn't have recognized her on the street – not in mufti. But in the theatre, even one filled with masked figures dressed identically, he knew precisely who she was even without checking the roster. She had her own peculiar aura and unmistakable presence that was intensely comforting to everyone in the room.

In some ways, Hope and Martin were similar – two brilliant and well-respected doctors at the top of their games. They were both perfectionists, dedicated to their professions and married to their jobs. Each had the ability to focus with laser-like precision on the task at hand, to the exclusion of all distractions. Like Martin, Hope shied away from the politics of the staff room and fraternizing with her colleagues.

But the similarities stopped there. Hope shunned the limelight, preferring to work as far behind the scenes and under the radar as she could manage. She was self-effacing to a fault. While others through their work sought to leave their marks, change the world, make others sit up and take notice, she was most satisfied when no one knew she had been there. If she did her best work, the patient remembered nothing and the surgeon had nothing to comment about. She had a compassionate streak a mile wide and an uncanny sense of empathy. She viewed her job as an opportunity to alleviate suffering and ever so briefly to cocoon the patient safely away from the slings and arrows of not only the surgeon's tools but the world at large as well. The fact that her work enabled the surgeons to do theirs was completely beside the point.

Four of Martin's team of registrars were in the theatre too –two scrubbed in as his assisting surgeons and the other two handling non-sterile tasks such as maneuvering the surgical microscope and accounting for used and discarded tools and equipment. His second in command was the stolid Scot, Jamie MacNab, who could have had a consultant's post in most hospitals in the country but who doggedly held out for one here at St. Thomas's. Next in line was Rupert Thompson, known for his quick hands and even quicker tongue – not as experienced as Mac Nab but with flashes of brilliance at times. Diana Webster and the disgraced Hugh Percy were both more than competent juniors with the promise of more. They handled the equipment, watched for an opportunity to impress the gov, and longed for the day that they too would take command of the operating theatre.

Martin's scrub nurse, the indomitable Mary Sedgwick, had been doing this longer than any of them. She anticipated his needs and handed him his implements without his needing to speak. Two circulating nurses, Karen Bridges and Angela Phillips, and Hope's junior gasser, Marcus Cushing, who was monitoring vitals, rounded out the team.

The first patient of the day, male aged 72, was in place and suitably anesthetized, ready to have his carotid artery cleaned up. Martin gave Webster the signal to get the microscope in place and gave the word to MacNab to make the initial incision. They were up and running and the time was 9:06.

X X X X X

Things had gone very smoothly that morning. No major hiccups. At 12:58 Thompson was just suturing closed the last incision on a successful varicose vein stripping and Martin was preparing to scrub up again for his 1 p.m. procedure when the house phone rang. Nurse Bridges looked to Martin for permission, and when he nodded, she pushed the button for speaker and answered it "Theatre 4."

"Ellingham?" came the deep male voice on the other end, sounding more than a bit strained.

"Yes, I'm here. Who's this?"

"It's Foster. What's your status? I'm covering A&E today and I've got a symptomatic AAA, marked abdominal pulse, and measuring 8.8 centimeters by sonogram. I don't think we've got time for a CT scan – not at all sure it won't rupture before I get him up there. Patient is male, 70, heavy smoker, no other medical conditions. Vitals are stable. How fast can you be ready?"

"I'm a go but the theatre's got to be turned. We've still got one on the table in here."

"Six is clear – can you take your team?"

"Affirmative. We will meet you there." He nodded to Bridges to disconnect the call and turned to his team.

"You heard the man - we're moving to Theatre Six. Thompson, you finish here and get her to post-op. Fairfax – can you find another gasser to assist over there so we can leave Cushing here?" Martin said. Hope nodded in response and after conferring sotto voce with Cushing took off out of the room at a run.

"Phillips, who's next on our schedule here?" Martin called out as the group started moving to depart.

After checking the list, she replied "Mrs. Clark – lower leg arterial repair."

Martin could visualize her – the frightened woman in the bed. "Damn. She's diabetic." After thinking a moment, and remembering the exchange that morning, he called out "Percy. I need you to go to pre-op and monitor Mrs. Clark. I want precise control on her blood sugar – I don't know how long we'll be delayed and the longer she fasts, the harder it will be to keep in check. Stay with her until we're ready to go. Got it?"

Percy swore under his breath. Stuck minding the GROLIIES while Webster assisted or at least observed what was likely to be the trickiest procedure all month. He was green with envy. "But Sir . . ." he started. He then realized it was useless to protest as Martin had already left the room.

As he charged down the corridor, Martin realized he needed at least one if not two more surgeons for this. He might get Foster to scrub in and take Thompson's place but someone must help Webster. Arriving at theatre six, he spied the house officer from his morning rounds – the woman who made Mrs. Clark smile. "Ms. Singh?" he called to her. She kept walking. He tapped her on the shoulder –"You – you were on rounds with me this morning."

"Yes?" She turned. "Oh. Mr. Ellingham. Were you talking to me?"

"Yes – you're Ms. Singh aren't you?"

"No, I'm Kapoor – Lakshmi Kapoor. "

Martin didn't stop to apologize for his faux pas. "Well you're on my service and I need you to come with me." She looked bewildered. "We're performing emergency open abdominal surgery in five minutes and I need another surgical assistant." She still didn't move, sure he couldn't possibly mean her. "Are you otherwise engaged?" Martin roared. "There won't be an engraved invitation. Unless you have a command performance at Buckingham Palace, I suggest you get ready." He turned on his heel and entered the prep room. She looked at the door for a minute and then followed him in.

X X X X X

Hope met the gurney at the lift and snatched the notes out of Foster's hands, disregarding his protests. The patient was in no condition to speak to her as he writhed in pain. "Okay, mister," she thought to herself, "what have you had to eat? Tea it says here. That's vague. Could mean a simple cuppa or a three course meal. What do we think – hmm? Milk at the very least." She quietly made her assessment of what would be necessary to take him down for the count. No time for finesse with this one. No layers of premedication, induction, sedation to take him out as lightly and slowly as possible. This called for Propofol – good old Milk of Amnesia. Lots of it.

She scrubbed thoroughly and was gowned and gloved in rapid succession. In the theatre ahead of her was gasser Dr. Michael Ali, already inserting the intravenous catheter and hanging the drip. She smiled at the patient she now knew was one Timothy Parker, a former miner turned busman. "Don't worry, luv, this won't hurt a bit." She took his hand in hers – a good way to judge the level of sedation as she and Ali monitored his vitals, as well as a way to reassure her patient. The last thing Parker saw before surrendering to the anesthesia was her smiling brown eyes between her mask and cap. He would remember being watched by an angel.

Martin was anxious to begin, waiting not very patiently for the man on the table to be sufficiently anesthetised. He had reviewed the scans and knew they were dealing with a ticking time bomb – every minute bringing them closer to a possible rupture that would spell disaster for him and most likely death for his patient. He gave orders like a general striding into battle. Webster, excited to be scrubbed in this time, prepped the incision site, Sedgwick laid the draperies, Bridges and Phillips carried in trays of instruments, each of which Kapoor inspected and inventoried. Foster ran through the scan again with MacNab. When Martin saw Fairfax and Ali begin to intubate, he got into position to begin cutting.

Emergency surgery of this sort was nothing like what he had been doing that morning. Not like conducting an orchestra – more like jazz improvisation, listening to his instincts and hoping that when they all followed along it would be the right path, the one that would make beauty out of chaos. He felt the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he made the first cut. Reliable Sedgwick was right there with retractors and clamps and sponges as he needed them, and Foster kept his field clear. MacNab was his second set of hands – they had worked together long enough that very little needed to be said as they worked their way through the patient's body into the aorta and searched for the offending bulge.

"Gotcha." He felt a surge of relief. The pulsing bulge in the artery was enormous and appeared ready to rupture at any moment. He could smell victory at this point. Another win for the good guys. While the patient was still a long way from cured, he wasn't going to die because they hadn't gotten him open quickly enough. For now, that would have to suffice.

XXXXX

They had done it. Timothy Parker, whose name Martin never would know and whom in Martin's mind would always be the poor bugger with the biggest damn triple A he'd ever seen, had been stitched up and sent off to post-op until he could return to the land of the conscious. Martin laughed a small, giddy laugh and clapped Foster and MacNab on the shoulders. "Good work, everyone." They knew this was a high compliment from the great Ellingham and they would long remember the way he said it, particularly after the day was over.

"You too, sir," said Webster, "that was bloody brilliant." There were murmurs of agreement.

"Well, bloody anyhow," Martin replied, modestly, and then grinned for just an instant as he stripped off his gloves and mask and binned them.

"Aw, go on now, all of you. You'll be givin' him a swelled head and then where will we be, hmm? Never hear the end of it from that one!" grumbled Sedgwick, but she smiled as she said it.

With the adrenaline rush over, they were exhausted and their legs felt like rubber. They were dying for a cup of tea, a sandwich, a shower, a pint. They were thinking of post-op and afternoon rounds and what might be on telly tonight. Webster was dreaming of gloating to Percy about her role in the theatre. As they made their way to the changing rooms with their thoughts elsewhere it was Kapoor who jolted them back to reality.

"But what happens to Mrs. Clark?" she asked. "She's still waiting, isn't she?"

"Bloody hell!" said Martin, and he headed back to theatre four.


	4. Blood Poisoning

**Author's Note:** Thanks again to Griffin Star for correcting Americanisms. Any that remain are my fault entirely. Also, I am still not a doctor and I apologize to those that are for my amateur attempt to describe surgery and medical conditions.

Glossary of Medical Terms for this Chapter:

BP – blood pressure

MI – Myocardial Infarction – Jargon for what we common folk call a Heart Attack

Pre-Op – pre-operative ward where patients are prepared for surgery

**Losing It**

**Chapter 4 – Blood Poisoning**

It was 3:30 by the time they had re-assembled in theatre four. After determining that Percy had in fact done his duty, Martin threw him a bone and let him scrub in too, even though with MacNab and Thompson there would be plenty of hands on deck. Fairfax was working with Cushing on a plan to combine twilight sleep via an inhalant with a local anesthetic. All seemed to be in readiness for them to transfer the patient from pre-op when Martin spied the helpful Ms. Kapoor skulking near the door. He couldn't get the image of her standing at the foot of Mrs. Clark's bed from this morning out of his head. She seemed to have a nice touch with people – what some would call a bedside manner.

"Kapoor – go and find the patient's family and explain about the delay. They'll be expecting her to be done by now and we haven't started yet."

"Yes, Mr. Ellingham," she replied, crestfallen.

"Don't look so glum – you can come back and observe when you've finished."

She lightened visibly and pushed though the swinging doors purposefully.

Martin turned to MacNab and remarked, "After the last one, this should be a piece of cake."

He regretted it the moment he said it. A man of science, Martin was not in the least superstitious. However he knew instinctively, as he had instructed Percy, that cockiness was an easy way to a bad end.

A porter poked his head in the door and, reading from a packet of notes, said "Any one waiting for this yere left leg arterial repair?" Martin nodded and Nurse Bridges signed the paperwork. Mrs. Clark was wheeled in on a trolley, relaxed and serene - no doubt the result of Fairfax's work in pre-op. The patient recognized Martin and gave him a trusting smile, which unsettled him a bit. He hoped the gassers would put her under in a hurry.

Mrs. Clark was transferred to the operating table and positioned on her side to give the surgeons access to her leg, which was strapped down to keep it still. Fairfax got busy. "Just relax, now, luv," she said, "you won't feel a thing." Hope's voice was soothing – a warm and velvety alto, not exactly the breathy voice you might expect from her airy-fairy appearance. She began slowly to count backwards from one hundred with the patient, using her soft and measured tones, and nearly everyone in the room relaxed.

Martin didn't relax. That last smile from his patient stayed before his eyes. He fidgeted. He had to stop himself from scrubbing at his eyes with his fists to erase the image – if he did that he'd have to re-glove and delay things longer. He blinked again, willing himself to focus on the scan of the artery displayed on a monitor next to him, to run through in his mind the careful surgical plan he'd just reviewed with the team.

"Dr. Fairfax? Are we ready?" he asked, with uncharacteristic impatience. He was usually such a perfectionist that he never hurried anyone on a routine procedure. Not unless it was medically necessary. Hope looked at him quizzically and said "Just a moment, Mr. Ellingham. I need one more BP check."

Martin looked at Hope sharply as she said this. This proved a big mistake as it drew his unwilling eyes straight to the face of the patient once again. He was struck for what seemed like the tenth time by how serene she looked; in such stark contrast to the frightened appearance and quivery voice he remembered form morning rounds.

Fairfax made one last notation and then nodded to Martin, "We're ready now."

Martin nodded back and took a deep breath, then turned to his left. "Over to you, Thompson," he said, authorising the younger man to begin the process of opening the leg and locating the troublesome artery. Martin watched him carefully, nodding to himself when Rupert did things correctly, and wincing when he would have done it differently. The sharp tang of blood permeated the air as Rupert worked. Martin was a little surprised he noticed it after all they had been through today.

Nurse Phillips nudged him. As he turned to respond, she mopped his brow a bit with a towel. He hadn't realized he was sweating.

In short order, Thompson had the field ready for Martin. Webster got the microscope in place and Sedgwick handed Martin a scalpel. Martin thought incongruously of a line of poetry from T.S. Eliot about a patient etherized upon a table.

At that moment, the theatre doors swung open and in scuttled Lakshmi Kapoor. Martin glared at her.

"Sorry, sir," she stammered, "you said I could come back after I spoke to the family."

Martin froze at the word family. His mind was racing. He kept seeing unwelcome images in his mind – the husband, the sister, the son. All clinging to Mrs. Clark. Mrs. Marion Clark. Aged 62. Jamaican. Diabetic. A waitress. Who wore black orthopedic shoes. Obviously a wife, a sister, a mother. God – he knew more about her than about the members of his team.

He flushed. His face was pouring sweat and he turned to Phillips so she could mop his brow. She murmured to him, under her breath "Are you feeling unwell, Mr. Ellingham?"

"Fine. Just a bit, err, warm," he replied. The others just looked at each other with some concern. Ellingham never lost his cool – not when he was operating. And the theatre was its typical chilly temperature.

Martin looked into the incision on Mrs. Clark's leg. "Focus," he told himself, sternly. This was a ridiculously simple procedure for him. He could see the artery, see the narrowing, see the path for repair. That prat, Percy, could do this. He blinked again. Once again he was flooded with images of Mrs. Clark and her family. He heard in his mind her sister say "We're counting on you." He had a mental picture of the husband and son begging him to save her from amputation. His mind dredged up a vision of the orthopaedist performing the amputation, and another of Mrs. Clark with a missing foot, waiting tables at a garish café outside Elephant and Castle. He let his chin drop to his chest.

The team looked at each other and shrugged. No one was quite sure how to respond. Finally MacNab cleared his throat. Martin lifted his head and MacNab thought just for a moment he'd seen abject terror in his mentor's eyes.

"Martin?" he said, gently, fearfully, not knowing what else to do. "Do you want me to do it?"

Martin shook his head and lifted his hands, adjusting the scalpel in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he looked again into the incision.

At that moment, his pulse was racing. The distinct odour of blood was overpowering and he wondered idly, idiotically, who was bleeding. Sweat continued to pour off his brow. He felt trapped by a sense of impending doom. It occurred to him that he must be having an MI and he moved his hands to his chest which felt tighter and tighter as he began to hyperventilate. As he did so, he cut his own finger with the scalpel he had forgotten he was holding. He felt like he was moving in slow motion as he dropped the scalpel and raised his hand to look at the wound. As he did, one single drop of dark red blood oozed through the slice in his glove. The image of that drop of blood filled his mind, and then his field of vision narrowed to a single prick of light that seemed to be very far away. He heard noises he couldn't identify, and then silence as the world went black. His last thought before he slumped to the floor was "Oh my God – I'm losing it."


	5. Blood Will Tell

Losing It

Chapter 4 – Blood Will Tell

Phillips had the presence of mind to drop the towel and grab Martin under the arms as he crumpled to the floor. She wasn't strong enough to break his fall completely but she did manage to keep him from hitting his head on the operating table as he went down. The team was stunned. There was no sound for what seemed like a very long minute after he collapsed as they stared at each other trying to comprehend what had just happened.

It was Hope who reacted first. Vaulting off her stool, she rushed over to where Martin was lying and took his pulse and listened to his heart with her stethoscope. The others looked to her and she realized she was the senior member of the team right now even if she wasn't a surgeon.

"Mac Nab – can you and Thompson take care of our surgical patient? Can you do this without him?"

Mac Nab blanched. He knew they were more than capable of operating but he felt callous stepping into Martin's shoes while the man was in such obvious distress right there in the room.

"Mac Nab!" she said sharply, "We don't need two crises in here at the same time. He'd want her to be taken care of. Do I need to find another surgeon?" Her voice was urgent. She couldn't see Mac Nab's face because she was still examining Martin – pulling away his gown and trying to get her stethoscope under his scrubs and onto his chest.

"Right." Mac Nab said. "I'll do the repair, Thompson you stand ready to close, and Percy, you step over here to assist with the cautery." The surgeons tore their eyes away from their mentor and looked to Mac Nab. There was a palpable sense of relief that someone was taking charge. Sedgwick handed Mac Nab a scalpel. This they knew how to do - unlike coping with Martin's situation.

"You there," said Hope to Kapoor. "Get on the phone and have A&E send up a team with a crash cart STAT. Tell them it is Code Blue. Then get over here and help me." The younger woman, glad for instructions, nodded and began to dial.

Hope turned back to Martin. His breathing was rapid and shallow and his heart was racing. She grabbed a blood pressure cuff from her table and began to measure. Damn, it was low. She thought she saw his eyelids flutter.

"Martin? Martin, can you hear me? Martin?" She looked down at him trying to assess what was happening and wishing she had done more time in A&E during her training. In the absence of respiratory distress or heart failure, neither of which was happening here, she was aware that her diagnostic skills were lacking. She would be very happy to see the crash team. She had Kapoor evaluate the wound on Martin's hand.

Martin began to sense his surroundings. He was aware of bright light and a cold floor and the warmth of a hand touching his face, holding his chin. He opened his eyes briefly and found he was looking into liquid brown eyes that reminded him of cognac. He fleetingly wondered whose eyes they were, in a pale face behind a blue mask, but that thought was erased immediately by the scent of cauterized flesh. He became acutely aware of the smell which to him was overpowering.

"Martin! Stick with me now. Keep your eyes open – can you do that for me?"

Martin opened his eyes, realized he was in the theatre, and immediately vomited. His eyes rolled and he was unconscious again. Hope noted that his blood pressure had plummeted.

She heard the doors swing open and felt a huge sense of relief to see the team from A&E rushing in with a trolley and the equipment to revive Martin. She sat back on her heels – "He just collapsed. One minute he was operating, the next he was pouring sweat like he was in the desert, then he just collapsed. He's breathing alright – a bit fast and shallow but not impaired. His pulse is 120 and his blood pressure is back up to 100 over 68 – it was down to 60 over 48 but it seems to be stabilizing. Oh. And he's cut his hand – see?"

"Right. Doesn't look like we need the defibrillator. We'll take him downstairs and get him taken care of." She nodded and took a deep breath. She realized she was no longer sterile as she sat there covered in Martin's vomit, her hands shaking a bit. She looked at Cushing who was doing fine monitoring Mrs. Clark. She couldn't leave the theatre – it would violate any number of policies - but she hoped she could just stay put on the floor until this whole thing was behind them.

X X X X X

Martin Ellingham may have been a brilliant surgeon and an excellent doctor, but he was a terrible patient. Today, many of the nursing staff wished he had stayed unconscious. He ought to have known as well as they did that test results were not available instantly, that he couldn't be discharged without the approval of the consultant, and that under no circumstances could he go check on his patients while he was one himself. "Ruddy cutters, think they're so bleedin' important that the rules don't apply to them. Well, sod him," said Judy Beacon, "just sod him."

Jeff Horton, a veteran consultant in the A&E department, came to Martin's bedside in the tiny cubicle with some trepidation. He'd had unpleasant run-ins with Ellingham before – when he'd called for a vascular consult on an emergency patient. The man was an arrogant bastard some of the time. But Horton also knew and more than respected Martin's skill. Horton had been the first doctor to see Timothy Parker with his symptomatic AAA this morning and he had already heard about Ellingham's miraculous save.

"Well Ellingham, we're going to admit you for observation overnight. I know that is not what you wanted but we still haven't run down what caused this incident. Everything big has checked out fine – you didn't have a heart attack or a stroke, your lungs are fine and your blood pressure has leveled off after the drop it took upstairs. It's probably exhaustion, maybe stress, could be a virus or other infection as well. We want to draw some blood, the full MOT and all that before we let you go.

"No reason to stay. I feel perfectly fine. Apart from this cut on my hand anyway. Any chance of getting that seen to, say, sometime before I RETIRE?" Martin said, acidly.

"Keep your pants on, mate. I'd a been happy to stitch that up for you any time but the word from upstairs is that the brass don't want any old saw working on the golden hands of their golden boy. They're sending down a hand guy from the reconstructive surgery team to take care of you."

Martin looked slightly mollified. "If he doesn't get here soon, though, I am going to find my own sutures and do it myself."

"Good luck with that one, son. No skin off my back but I think the almighty Archibald will have something to say about who operates on one of his geniuses. Of which you are no doubt aware you are exhibit number 1."

Martin nodded, feeling slightly sick at the possibility that Archibald, the chief of surgery, knew the details of his collapse.

Horton continued "now if it were up to me, I'd admit you straight onto a post-operative ward and let you hang out with those poor buggers you've been cutting to pieces. However, someone upstairs obviously likes you since the orders I have here show that they have somehow wangled you a private room on the fifth floor."

That was good news. Cut down the people who would know he was there. Or why.

"Now there has been a whole parade of people by here wanting to check up on you. We've sent them away, but I've been asked to tell you that Jamie Mac Nab finished up the surgery you were working on and that the patient is fine. And that Foster will cover your schedule tomorrow. So no worries on the surgical front. One and all hope that you are on the mend and will soon be back to terrorizing patients or whatever it is you do up there. Now is there anyone you want me to call for you? Wife? Girlfriend? Your mum?"

"What? Er. No. No one to call."

"Is there going to be someone to look after you when we do let you go?"

"I can and will look after myself. For God's sake – I'm a doctor."

Horton wrote a comment in Martin's notes. "Poor unhappy sod," he thought to himself. He would much rather be an ordinarily competent doctor with family and friends who loved him that to be the exceptional but exceptionally lonely Ellingham.

Just then the hand surgeon arrived. Horton stepped aside to let Harry Godwin approach Martin. He wasn't paying too much attention, just filling in his notes, as Godwin exchanged pleasantries with Martin. However, he looked up as Godwin unwrapped the bandage on Martin's hand. He was just in time to see Martin take one look at the bloody cut and pass out once more.


	6. Blood Loss

Losing It

Chapter 6 – Blood Loss

By Saturday Martin was exceedingly bored. They had finally, reluctantly, sprung him from hospital on Thursday afternoon, with strict orders to stay home and rest until the Monday after next. He would have argued more strenuously about this sentence, but the fact was that the stitches in his right index finger were going to keep him out of the theatre until they were out anyway.

The doctors had found no obvious physical cause for his embarrassing collapse and had chalked it up to stress and exhaustion. The hope was that a full 12 days of rest and relaxation would fix him up. He hoped they were right but had a nagging suspicion that there was more to this than simple exhaustion. The terror, the fear, the unwelcome visions of the patient on the table and her family were still there, still lurking in his mind and haunting his dreams. It grabbed him in the pit of his stomach and took him by surprise each and every time it crossed his mind. It was terrifying, as was every possible implication he could think of. Too terrifying to contemplate.

He needed to find some way to fill his days until then. On Friday, he'd picked up a few things at the market, made an appointment with his bank manager for next week, and gotten his hair cut. Today he had idly flipped on the telly, but there was nothing much on except endless loops of news coverage about a North Sea oil rig explosion that had occurred on Thursday. There were no more dishes to wash, pictures to dust, or bills to pay. He listlessly flipped through the medical journals on his bedside table but they did not hold his interest. He was wallowing.

Disgusted with himself, he decided he needed some fresh air. He dressed in a suit and tie, which even he knew was ridiculous for taking a walk, but it helped him feel like himself to stick to his routine. When he stepped into the rare October sunshine he felt a little better.

Walking without a purpose or destination was something he hadn't done in a very long while. Usually he was so busy with his work and his minor personal errands that every outing was mapped out for the maximum efficiency. He found himself wandering towards Notting Hill instead of Kensington Gardens and it occurred to him then that perhaps he would see if he could find another clock to tinker with in his enforced holiday. It was a long walk to Portobello Road but time was something he had plenty of.

X X X X X

It was nearly four when Martin emerged from the market stall of his favorite clock dealer with an unwieldy wrapped parcel containing his newest project. He was thinking he might need a taxi to get it home and was wondering where the nearest cab stand was as he went around a corner. As he did, he bumped his parcel against the shoulder of a woman bustling in the other direction. It was Hope. She looked up to chastise him for not watching where he was going, and was startled when she recognized him.

"Martin? Martin Ellingham? How are you?"

He stopped, surprised and irritated. When he looked down, he saw a petite woman with a halo of golden ringlets and huge, liquid brown eyes looking up at him. She was wearing some kind of short brown dress with tights and boots and a scarf wound around her neck in some complicated way. He somehow felt like he should recognize the eyes but he really had no idea who she was.

"Er, eh, Hello. I'm sorry . . ." he trailed off, not knowing what to say. Was she a patient, the wife of a colleague, a shopkeeper he had done business with?

"It's Hope, Hope Fairfax. I'm sorry to startle you. It's just, well, good to see you up and about, that's all. We've been worried about you. How are you?"

"Ah, Dr. Fairfax. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you – you look different – it's the hair maybe." She put a hand self-consciously to her flowing mane of golden hair that she kept so tightly under control when she was working.

"And I'm fine really," he continued. "Benched for a while, until the stitches in my hand come out, but otherwise as good as new."

"Oh, yes, well that was a rather nasty cut. I'm glad you're doing so well – when I was working on you in the theatre I wasn't sure at all what was going on."

"Oh." He hadn't known she was working him. He hadn't really even remembered she had been there that day. As he looked at her again, he realized why he had recognized her eyes – he had a searing mental image of these brown eyes looking down at him when he was at his lowest moment. Another thought occurred to him.

"Well, er, then I have a funny feeling I owe you an apology. I have some recollection that I was not, well, not at my best that day. I don't remember everything, but I'm guessing if you were the one working on me then you bore the brunt of . . . well . . . IT. And I'm sorry."

She laughed. It was an infectious sound. "If you mean that you are sorry you puked on me, well there is no need to apologise. It could happy to anyone. All in a day's work really."

"Well, I am sorry though." He blushed a bit, remembering. "Could I at least buy you a cup of coffee, to thank you for taking care of me? There's a place around here somewhere I am sure." He looked about, haplessly.

"I'm sorry - I'd really love that but it will have to be some other time. I'm actually on my way to hospital now. I work an overnight shift in obstetrics on Saturday and Sunday evenings."

"Oh. Another time then."

"What brings you up here?" she asked, looking at the parcel in his hands.

"I was, er, buying a clock."

"A clock. I see. Is your old one broken then?"

He smiled a bit. It surprised her. He had a nice smile – one she hadn't noticed much before, probably because ninety percent of the time she saw him, he was wearing a mask. "No, actually. This is the one that is broken."

"You came out to buy a broken clock?" She shook her head and the golden ringlets seemed to catch the light. "That seems, well, odd."

"It's my hobby – restoring clocks. I thought that while I had some time on my hands I would see what I could do with this one."

"Right. That makes more sense then. Do you come here often?" It was her turn to blush. "That didn't come out right. I just meant I haven't seen you here before."

"Not very often. Once in a while. You?"

"Oh, I live here – well just up that way. In the Mews behind."

"Very nice. Is there, well, is there any news around at St. Thomas's? It seems so odd not to know what is going on there."

"You mean besides you?"

Martin groaned. He didn't want to be the object of news and had really hoped some other tidbit of gossip would have overtaken the story of his collapse.

"Actually – have you been reading your email?" she asked, cautiously.

"No, no I haven't. Not much point if I can't work."

"Well there is one thing then. I don't suppose you've heard about the funeral?"

"Whose funeral? No I haven't heard. Not about any funeral."

"It's Mary – you know Mary Sedgwick don't you –"

"MARY died? How? – When?"

"No, not her, her son. The older one – he was working on that oil rig that exploded Thursday. He was very badly injured and taken to hospital but he died on the operating table early yesterday."

"God. How awful. When is the funeral?"

"There's an email with the details but it's on Thursday. Late morning I think. Somewhere over near Chalk Farm."

"Have you seen her? Mary I mean?"

"Yes. I was working with her when word came from her husband about the accident. He was still alive then, though. She was tough, our Mary, but I think this is going to have hit her very hard."

"Yes, I expect it will." Martin looked thoughtful.

"I'm sorry, but I must go – need to catch the tube or I'll be late and some poor mum won't have her epidural. Nice to see you Martin." Hope waved as she ran off, scarf and curls flying.

Martin turned to watch her go, still thinking about Mary and her poor son. He wished he could remember the son's name – he'd never met the boy but Mary nattered on about all her kids and he'd picked up a few things from listening to her in that half-hearted way of his. She'd be shattered by this, he knew.

He thought too of the surgeon – the one who had been operating on Mary's son when he died. He wondered if that surgeon knew about Mary, about how she doted on her boys, about how good she was as a nurse and how well-liked as a colleague. About how Mary would feel knowing that the surgeon charged with healing her son had failed. How Mary would think about surgeons, all surgeons, after this. He wondered whether the surgeon knew the dead man's name or where he lived. That he had a mum and dad who loved him and younger brothers who looked up to him. He wondered how that other, nameless, faceless surgeon could live with himself knowing that the boy had died. He wondered how he would live with himself if he were the surgeon. He wondered how he was going to live with himself anyway, thinking about the patients he had lost during his tenure in this job. When he couldn't wonder any more, he found a taxi and made his way home.


	7. Bloodless

Losing It

Chapter 7 – Bloodless

The week had dragged on for Martin. It seemed ironic that now, when he had all the time in the world to rest and relax, he was instead agitated and restless. And forget sleeping. The more he told himself to sleep, the more wakeful he was. He couldn't articulate the doubts and the demons that were troubling him. But each night when he crawled between the sheets, there was fear in the pit of his stomach that kept him tossing and turning until dawn.

He attributed all this unease to his inability to work and to follow his usual routine. He was stir-crazy at home but also running out of ideas for places to go other than St. Thomas's. He had tried to fill his days. The clock idea had not panned out as his inability to use his injured right hand frustrated him. But he had purchased new shoes, walked through Hyde Park, and even taken in a jazz concert in a coffee house he'd discovered around the corner from his flat. He'd broken down and gone to the cinema on Tuesday afternoon. Unfortunately for him, A Beautiful Mind was not a good choice of films in his present frame of mind, and he'd walked out in the middle, wishing he'd bought a ticket to Gosford Park or even Lord of the Rings instead.

So on Thursday morning, he found himself actually a bit relieved to have a definite place he needed to be, even if that place was Dennis Sedgwick's funeral. He dressed carefully in a dark suit and somber tie and made his way by car to the ugly, red-brick, modern-looking church. Sitting in his car at the curb, he recognized a few of his colleagues among the mourners filing into the building and he hesitated to enter, suddenly worried about the prospect of facing them after his ignominious incident last week. Finally, after debating with himself about the possibility of simply leaving, he sidled in at the last moment and took a seat in the back pew just as the processional began to play. Even then, he saw a few heads turn and look at him. Nick Foster and Angela Phillips both gave him encouraging smiles but he saw others making whispered comments among themselves when they recognized him. He imagined the worst, which in his mind was pity.

He thought the petite woman two rows ahead of him with the long, golden plait and the smart black skirt suit might be Dr. Fairfax. He was surprised at his flicker of disappointment that her hair was not loose around her face like it had been on Saturday. He was even more surprised to realize he was capable of noticing or having an opinion about a woman's hair style - especially the hairstyle of a colleague, one about whom he knew virtually nothing except her prodigious ability to put patients to sleep and keep them there.

The service was heartbreaking, even for those who had not personally known the vibrant Dennis, cut down in his prime by such a senseless and horrifying accident. His father, Bob, a decorated beat copper, was weeping openly and Mary, so unflappable in a medical emergency, looked stunned and diminished. She clung to the hands of her two younger sons with the determination only a mother can feel. The surviving brothers looked lost as well, even as they tried to physically support the burden of their parents' grief.

As the recessional began, Martin knew he needed to get out of there, to avoid being asked uncomfortable questions by his colleagues. Monday would be soon enough to face them. He slipped out a side door and stood under his umbrella in the rain, collecting his thoughts and waiting for the others to exit the main door and disperse to the luncheon organized by the wives of Bob's police colleagues.

As he stood there, thinking again about parents and children and about this death, this loss, he was unable to see it as the product of the accident, the explosion. He could only see the surgeon's inability to save the boy, and by extension, his own failures as a surgeon. As he thought about Mary and Bob and their grief, he felt his control start to crumble and tears well in his eyes.

The door behind him opened and he sensed rather than heard someone emerge to stand next to him in the rain. He turned to confront the invader – How dare anyone intrude on his solitude, his grieving? How dare this person witness his pain? As he recognized Hope, his irritation rose to anger - Who was she to offer pity or comfort to him?

But as he turned to confront her, these thoughts and the harsh words on his lips died immediately. Hope was silently weeping – big heaving sobs. Her shoulders were shaking and tears ran from her eyes and mingled on her cheeks with the falling raindrops. She looked grief-stricken and bereft, miserable and utterly sad. Seeing her like this stirred something in Martin – something that urged him to push aside his own feelings and offer her help. He wasn't sure what and he wasn't sure how. He wasn't really even sure why.

He started by moving closer and shifting his umbrella to shelter them both. She looked up at him then and, upon recognizing him, became clearly embarrassed. She began trying to wipe the tears away with her dripping hand, even as the hiccups shook her face. Martin fished in his pocket and came up with a snowy white handkerchief which still bore the creases from the laundry. He offered it, a bit shyly, and she took it gratefully and dried her eyes.

"That's better, then, isn't it?" he asked, cautiously, anxious for her to stop crying as it made him feel, well, weird.

"Yes," she replied, still a bit shaky. "And thank you – for this I mean," she added, holding up the handkerchief and sniffing a bit.

"Er, yes. You'd better hang on to that," he said, looking with mild disgust at the soggy hanky.

"So sad. I just can't get over how sad this all was."

"Yes, yes it was." Martin shifted uneasily. He waited a moment for her to regain her composure, and then asked her, "Are you heading back now? To the hospital?

"No, I have the day off. I switched shifts with Hypnos."

"Who is that?" Martin racked his brain, but that name clearly didn't ring a bell.

Hope gave a little laugh. "Alex Petropoulos – we call him Hypnos – you know, the Greek god of sleep? He's covering vascular for me today which means I get his gastro schedule tomorrow. Eleven colonoscopies in a row. Such a privilege."

"Sounds ghastly."

"Oh, it's not so bad, at least for me it isn't." She paused, and then asked, a bit hesitantly, "Is that offer of coffee still good? I mean if you're not busy or anything?"

"Erm, yes, yes of course it is. I'm not busy – can't have these blasted sutures out until tomorrow and I've been banned from hospital until Monday morning."

"Brilliant. There's probably a café or something back towards the tube station," Hope began.

"Well, I've got the car, so we can go anyplace you like."

She looked at him for a long moment, noticing at once the dark circles under his eyes and his pallor. He'd lost some weight too, she could see, from the way his suit fit. She was worried about him.

"You've no plans at all then – no one waiting for you at home, you're free this afternoon too?"

"Er, yes, but I didn't mean, that is to say. . . "

She cut him off. "Good. Then I know just the place for a rainy day."

X X X X X

It was after five when Martin pulled his car up in front of Hope's house, a diminutive mews house with a blue front door on a quiet street tucked away in the heart of Notting Hill. He was as relaxed as he had been in a week, or even longer – Hope's idea to explore the British Museum had been inspired. There had been plenty to look at and no need for deep conversation. An easy camaraderie had sprung up and he found he was a bit let down at the prospect of leaving her here and going back to his lonely flat.

"This is me, then," she said, quietly, crooking her head towards the door.

"Oh. Yes. Er. Thank you. For a lovely day. It was a brilliant idea. I hope I haven't kept you from anything – or anyone – important."

She looked almost shy for a minute. "No, I had nothing planned. And thank you, Martin - I had fun. Such an unexpected treat after the way the day started."

He nodded. She studied him, looking up at his face, and he began to feel uneasy, like something was expected of him but he didn't know what.

"Martin, I have an idea. Why don't you come in and stay for something to eat? It won't be anything gourmet, but I can manage pasta primavera and a salad if you like."

It was a gift – this invitation - an opportunity to prolong this chance encounter and avoid the boredom and loneliness awaiting him at home. Still, he was not sure how to accept graciously.

"That sounds, er, lovely – if you're sure. I mean, I wouldn't want to impose . . ."

"No imposition. I'd be glad of the company."

"Well, okay, then – thank you." He parked the car and went around to open her door. He offered his hand to help her out, but she looked at it strangely. She put her hand on the door to get herself out. He looked down at his shoes, unsure what he had done wrong. As he did so, he glimpsed her shapely legs as she swung them out of the car. He'd been surprised at his reaction to her looks all day. He really had to wonder what beauty might actually be lurking beneath the sea of blue scrubs at the hospital if he ever had the inclination to look.

X X X X X

Her house suited her, he thought. It was like a doll's house, almost, with everything scaled down to Hope's diminutive size. It was extremely tidy but cozy and very homey, with colorful cushions, chintz-covered furniture, and a basket of knitting next to the wing chair by the fire.

They sat at a scrubbed pine table, their plates pushed away, finishing their wine and looking at each other in the soft light of candles. She'd taken off her shoes and her jacket immediately upon arriving home, and looked more relaxed and much more feminine. He marveled at how tiny her feet were. "So tell me about you," she asked him. "Apart from your professional reputation and your interest in clocks, I feel like I know nothing about you, even though we've worked together for what – ten years? Longer?"

"Not much to tell, really."

"C'mon. There must be something. You didn't spring, fully-formed from Archibald's head one morning, did you? If you don't tell me, I'll have to guess."

"Go on, then," he said, with a glint in his eye, "try and guess."

"Well, let's see. Looking at you, where do I think you're from?"

"You'll never get it – not just from looking at me."

"No? Well, let's see how I do. I'm guessing you're the youngest child – a whole pack of older brothers, I'd say, never letting you have your way which makes you demand it now. Lots of order and discipline – I'd say your dad's in the church – a parson somewhere. Let's guess Cheshire. You have a nice speaking voice so I'll guess you were a chorister – went to some cathedral school. You're your mum's favorite – every mum wants a doctor in the family. I'd say you played cricket at school and on holiday you like to ski."

He was laughing out loud at the absurdity of this by the time she finished.

"No? Not right? Okay, then, you tell me the real story." She sat back with satisfaction, twirling the stem of her wine glass in her delicate fingers.

He cleared his throat. "Born in Portsmouth. Dad's a surgeon – he was in the navy then and stationed there. Mum's father was the Vice-Admiral in charge of the hospital. I'm an only child, though I was sent off to boarding school at 7 so that was kind of like having a hundred older brothers to pick on me. Dad left the navy and became a consultant at Bart's here in London when I was eleven. I went up to Winchester at 13, where I played rugger, not cricket, and not particularly well. Went straight to St. Mary's for medical school and then here. I can't sing a note and I despise skiing."

"I see. Parents still in London?"

"No, Portugal these days. Mum likes it out there – she spent part of her youth in Gibraltar when Granddad was stationed there."

"And you're not married. No kids or anything." She looked down at her glass when she asked that.

"No. Married to my job, I guess."

"Now that wasn't so bad," she said brightly, "was it?"

"No, I suppose not." He was looking at her closely now, tipsy enough to look boldly at her warm brown eyes and her soft pink cheeks.

"Your turn – to guess about me."

"No, I'm no good at guessing, really, I'm not."

"Just try. It might be hilarious."

He put down his empty wine glass, still gazing at her. The way the light hit her hair. The way her fingers held the stem of her glass.

"Okay then. First I do know you went to Oxford and did your clinical work at St. Mary's so I get two points to begin with. I think you must have two sisters – Faith and Charity and you must, of course, be the middle one. Father's a baronet, I think, mother's a debutante. You grew up at the family pile somewhere in, I dunno, Sussex? Pony mad as a kid. Schooled at an exclusive Ladies' College before Oxford. You're an ice skating champion and your secret passion is Doctor Who. Am I right?"

Her laugh was beautiful. He was willing to go on making a fool of himself if he could just hear her laugh some more.

"One thing right," she said, smiling.

"Oh really? Which one?"

"I am the middle child. With two sisters who, thankfully, are called Grace and Rose and not Faith and Charity. Grace is a barrister, and Rosie does something technical at a bank. We grew up in Bath where dad runs the family firm, which is brewing, by the way. Mum's a chartered accountant – very romantic, those two, met doing the brewery books for Inland Revenue. I was a day girl at an independent school where I did no ice skating whatsoever. Rode a pony once on holiday at the New Forest and was completely terrified. I was a sprinter at school and I became a cox'n for the eight man rowing team at St. Catherine's at Oxford."

They both laughed a bit. She blushed a bit, and then added, "And I'm not married, never was. No kids. Not even a cat."

"Thank goodness for that. I hate cats. Nasty, dirty things." He paused. "How'd you end up a gasser? I mean from all the medical specialties, why that one?"

"Oh, the suffering, I imagine. I had very noble ideas about relieving suffering when I went to medical school. And they were fine ideals. But in the clinical courses I saw too much suffering I couldn't do anything about. Gassing just seemed logical at that point."

"Yes, I guess it would." Martin looked around and finally had to ask "Lavatory?"

"Oh, just upstairs, you can't miss it. I'll make some coffee while you're gone."

He nodded, then climbed the stairs. There were four doors on the landing, two ajar. He looked in the nearest one and found himself in a bower. A wide bed was covered in a heavy green counterpane and had a flowery quilt draped across the bottom. There were masses of cushions in pastel colours, and gauzy white fabric forming a canopy and draping the support poles. The room was neat as a pin but welcoming. He smiled at the rag doll in a tiny chair on her bureau. He noticed her stethoscope coiled next to it, just like the one on his own bureau. He sniffed the faint scent of potpourri – roses, he thought, and something spicy. It looked like such a refuge.

Reluctantly he tore himself away to use the facilities behind the adjacent door. When he was through, though, he felt compelled to go back to her bedroom. The bed was inviting and he was so very, very tired. Like Goldilocks, he thought he'd just try it out for a moment. Like Goldilocks, he found it just right and immediately fell fast asleep. Whether it was the lack of sleep recently, the wine he consumed or the effect of Hope's bed he never would know.

After a short while, Hope came looking for him, puzzled and a bit concerned. When she saw him, fast asleep and looking more at ease than she had seen him all day, she smiled indulgently. She removed his shoes and then, after debating with herself over possible restriction of his airway, his tie. She covered him with the quilt lying across the end of the bed and crept back downstairs.


	8. A Bloody Fool

Losing It

Chapter 8 – A Bloody Fool

Martin was aware of waking up and struggled against it. He was enjoying his dream immensely and wanted to prolong it as much as possible. Three lively, golden-haired fairies were flitting about him in a garden scene, like something out of A Midsummer's Night Dream. He could smell the flowers and feel the silken cushions of their forest hideaway. He felt carefree and so very rested. But the dream was fading and at last he opened his eyes, expecting to see the familiar sight of his own window, his own lamp, his own room.

He sputtered. Where in the devil was he? He recognized nothing. He was alone in the dim ambient light in an unfamiliar place. He realized immediately that despite the feeling of being tucked up in bed, he was still fully dressed in his suit. It wasn't a hospital. And he didn't feel ill – he actually felt pretty good except for the slight headache behind his eyes. The way he felt after drinking.

It came back to him then. The wine. Drinking wine with Hope in her front room. And his glimpse of her bedroom. He had no memory of trying out her bed but he slowly realized where he was, and he panicked. His head spun from side to side – how long had he been here? Had she noticed? Where was she? Had she been here with him? What had he said? What had he done? Had he done . . .? "No, not that," he thought, with some relief, "I've still got my clothes on."

Oh God. How had this happened? And what was he going to do now? He was such a bloody fool. How was he going to face her? He wouldn't be able to avoid her for long, even if he wanted to. The idea of standing three feet away from her over a patient, trying to pretend like this hadn't happened, struck terror in him.

He turned on the lamp on the bedside table and immediately spied his shoes lined up neatly beside the bed. They were turned around from the way he usually left them – the toes pointed away from the bed instead of towards the bed. Had she done that? He finally had the presence of mind to look at his watch. Nearly six. Holy hell – he'd been asleep all night!

As he put on his shoes, he thought about the possibility of sneaking out – perhaps she'd think he left hours ago. Somehow that would be less embarrassing, and he could get by without facing her now. He could e-mail her his thanks for dinner and maybe she'd forget this whole thing by the time she was scheduled in his theatre again. Maybe she'd stick to colonoscopies and Caesarean sections and he'd never have to face her at all. It was a big hospital.

Just then there was a light tap at the door. "Martin? Are you awake?" Hope's voice was faint but friendly. The sneaking out option was not going to work. Bugger all.

"Yes," he said, quietly, miserably, not knowing what to do or what else to say.

She crept in the door tentatively, despite the fact that it was her house, her room. He thought she looked six years old in her oversized flannel pyjamas, with her clean scrubbed face and her hair in damp curls around her shoulders. He turned his face away at the sight.

She looked confused, then gave him a small smile and said, "Did you sleep alright?"

"You should have sent me home. Shaken me awake or something. This needn't have happened." His tone was brusque.

"Maybe I should have. But I could tell you hadn't been sleeping well and when I found you sleeping so soundly, I thought it would be a shame to wake you when you needed the rest." She leaned against the bureau, studying him. He certainly looked better rested, although his face had clearly reddened since she entered the room. "I take sleep very seriously. A professional interest, you might say."

He shifted uncomfortably, sitting on the bed and then buried his face in his hands. She came around to stand in front of him. "It's okay, Martin. You needed to sleep and you did. So what if it was here instead of at home or in hospital or at a resort somewhere? Nothing is wrong. You don't need to be so upset."

"The wine was contra-indicated. It has that effect on me, especially if I am tired."

She chuckled at that. "I'll remember for next time."

He looked up at her then. "I acted a bloody fool. It wasn't professional of me. I shouldn't have . . ."

"You shouldn't have what? Shouldn't have asked me for coffee? Shouldn't have stayed for dinner? Shouldn't have fallen asleep? Don't regret everything just because you showed you are human, for God's sake. Don't regret it, not a minute of it." She was winding up now, clearly angry.

He waited a long minute before answering her. "Well, what I should do is go now. You've got work today. Eleven colonoscopies, I think you said. That'll take some fortitude. I'll get out of your hair." It was as contrite a statement as Martin was capable of. He stood up and started towards the door.

The steam went out of her pique. "Wait," she said, putting her hand on his arm to stop him. "Could you just go downstairs and wait while I get changed? There's coffee, if you want some."

He turned and nodded, and then left the room, closing the door behind him. He made a quick stop in the lavatory before heading down to the kitchen, where the scent of coffee beckoned. He found a mug and poured some, smiling at the orderliness of her cupboards. As he carried his mug to the table, he saw a pillow and a neatly-folded blanket sitting on the sofa, and he realized she must have slept there. He was instantly filled with remorse. What kind of a man was he to let her sleep on the sofa, particularly when she had to work today? He needed to do something to make it up to her, he mused as he drank his coffee.

She came down in short order, looking professional but very pretty in slim black trousers tucked into tall boots and a violet jumper with a subtle vee-neck. Her hair was not braided, but tied back with a paisley scarf that matched her jumper. There was a silver chain around her neck and slim silver hoops gleamed at her ears. He couldn't help giving her an admiring look as he stood up.

"Can you do something for me?" she asked.

"Sure – it's the least I can do." He felt he owed her whatever she might ask.

"The light bulb is out on the stairs. I can't reach it and I can't figure out how to balance a ladder on the steps. You're the tallest person who's ever been in this house – at least a foot taller than me I should think. Would you see if you can reach the fixture and change the bulb?"

"By all means. Do you have the other bulb?"

She nodded and rummaged in the cupboard under the stairs for the packet. He assessed the fixture from the foot of the stairs and then, taking the replacement bulb, climbed half-way up. Damn. On the step where he could reach the ceiling, he was too far off from the fixture but on the step directly under the fixture, he was not tall enough to reach.

"I can't quite make it," he called down to her.

"Oh, damn."

He felt deflated. He hated to fail at anything, particularly with an audience.

"Well, hang on. What if I lift you up – give you a boost? Do you think that would work?"

"Brilliant idea, Martin." She skittered up the stairs behind him. "Though we'd better not let anyone at work hear about this. Can you imagine the jokes in the theatre about how many consultants it takes to change a bulb?"

The idea of being the butt of jokes around the hospital gave him pause, and he frowned. He handed her the bulb and, standing on the step directly under the fixture, he lifted her up to the ceiling.

She laughed. "Oh, it feels like I'm flying. I've never felt so tall before."

"Mind you don't get altitude sickness in the rare air then," he said drily, looking up at her. He suddenly became very aware that he was touching her. "Can you get it?"

"Yes, hang on, just a sec. There – I've got it." She slid down through his arms and just for a moment her arms came to rest on his shoulders. They were eye to eye – no mean feat given the enormous height difference between them. They stared at each other for long seconds. She licked her lips self-consciously. He felt the warmth of her pressed against him and the little cool spot on her back where her jumper had ridden up under his hand. She broke the gaze and looked down, and he set her ever so gently on the step above the one he was standing on.

She looked flustered. "I just need to get . . . something – I'll be right down." She turned at ran up the steps without looking at him.

"What was that about?" he asked himself. He slowly went back to the table, but was unable to focus on his coffee. "Lead me not into temptation," he told himself sternly.

She came down shortly carrying a black leather rucksack and a belted black mac. She had something shiny on her lips and there was something smoky about her eyes now. Her smile was awkward.

"I'm off then. Duncan and his colonoscopies wait for no one, especially not the gasser."

"Shall I give you a lift?"

"If it's not any trouble that would be nice."

"No trouble. I don't have anywhere to be until 3 when Godwin's taking my stitches out."

"You'll be glad of that, won't you?"

"Yes. At the very least I'll be able to work on my clock this weekend. Give me something to do."

She nodded, then bit her lip. She took a slip of paper from a stack beside the phone and wrote on it. "Here's my mobile number. If you think of it, let me know what Godwin says about when you'll be back doing surgery." She looked nervous.

"Oh. Yes. Then you'll know to stay away from vascular, won't you." He looked at her a moment, then gestured for the pen she was holding. He took his own slip of paper and scrawled on the page. "Here's mine. For the next time you need a light bulb changed."


	9. Bloodstained

**Author's Note:** Just a reminder that the disclaimer is on chapter 1 and I don't own anything. Medical jargon of the day is deep vein thrombosis or DVT – a blood clot in the leg that can be problematic if it moves to the lungs. It is a not uncommon complication of surgery. I continue to beg your pardon for any Americanisms that have crept in against my will and for my efforts as a lay person to write about medicine. And I love reviews and comments – they let me know whether or not it is worthwhile to keep going. Let me know what you think – even if you aren't enjoying it.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 9 – Bloodstained**

Martin pulled the Jag into the car park at his usual half-six on Monday morning, more than ready to be back at work. He had been very pleased at how well his index finger was working after the stitches were removed on Friday. There had been no trouble tinkering with the clock over the weekend, which was a good omen for his ability to return promptly to surgery now that his forced holiday was over.

He had been in such a good mood on Saturday that he'd gone shopping for some really fresh fish and made sushi for his supper to celebrate. For a brief moment he had even considered calling Hope to ask her to join him, as a gesture of thanks for her kindness and discretion regarding his appalling behavior at her house. On some level he had also recognized that he enjoyed her company. But even before he realized it would be a wasted invitation because she'd be working her usual Saturday night obstetrics shift, he also thought maybe dinner at his place wouldn't set the right tone. Lunch would be better. Lunch, during working hours, someplace casual and public, near the hospital, one colleague to another. Not a date. Not remotely a date.

He wasn't on the roster to perform any surgery today. He would see pre-operative patients who would be on his schedule for tomorrow, plus take calls from the post-op wards and from A&E. Tomorrow he would return to theatre four and resume operating. He was anxious to get on with it.

He'd been through his e-mail from home last night so he only had to catch up on a small bit of paperwork left behind from his last day at work before he was ready for his first patient. The other vascular surgery consultants, Nick Foster, Griffin Bell and Kendall Brooks, all poked their heads into his room, one at a time, before going off to change for surgery. He thanked them all for covering for him during his absence. They were relieved to see him looking fit and chipper and one by one they marveled at the job Godwin had made of the repair to his hand.

Diana Webster and Hugh Percy were back with him today and would join him in theatre tomorrow. They both seemed glad to see him, and Martin decided to forgive Percy his sins arising from his treatment of Mrs. Clark, at least for the moment, on the grounds that Martin himself had not been at his best that day and his assessment of Percy might have been off. They had a busy morning looking at reports from referring GPs, reviewing scans and ordering more, examining patients and ordering tests, and generally assembling their surgical plans for the procedures they would undertake in the morning.

At noon, Rupert Thompson called Martin for a consult in one of the post-operative wards. He suspected a deep vein thrombosis had developed in one of Brooks' AAA patients from Friday. Martin examined the man, concurred with Thompson's diagnosis, and ordered a scan of the man's right leg as well as a course of clot-busting medication, to be administered once the scan confirmed what he and Thompson were reasonably sure had occurred. Things were going swimmingly for Martin, if not for Brooks' patient, and he felt like he was nearly back, nearly normal, nearly on top of the world again.

He stopped in the canteen to pick up a sandwich and a bottle of water to take back to his desk for lunch. The prawn-salad looked sick-making so he stuck to the cheese and tomato. As he waited in the queue to pay, he overheard two female voices ahead of him and realized with some dismay that they were talking about him.

"So d'you hear? Old Smarty-Marty is back today. Can't bloody wait to have him shoutin' at us down on three-p, can I? It's been a treat havin' him out, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, he's back alright. Can you imagine though? I mean Angela was right there and from what I heard, he fainted dead away, just like a little girl. One minute all high and mighty surgeon, givin' orders and makin' life miserable for one and all, and the next, there he goes, pukin' all over the theatre and that sweet Dr. Fairfax. And the poor patient, still there, on the table, dead to the world. Who does he bloody think he is anyway? Probably drinkin' at lunch, I'm guessin'. What else makes you puke and pass out but too much drink? He ought to be ashamed."

"Well Judy Beacon was in A&E when they brought him down there and she says that old Ellingham was on his high horse, at least until Archibald told him what for. Tellin' everyone who'd listen that he was goin' to sew up his own ruddy hand. Let him do it, that's what I say. Let that sod sew up his own hand then, give the rest of us a break."

Martin had never been one to give a damn about gossip around the hospital. He had grown immune to the idle comments, and the opinions of the staff really meant very little to him as long as he was satisfied with his own performance. But hearing this incident and his behavior ripped to shreds by these unknown women tore at him in ways he could never have imagined. Not when their views coincided so nicely with his own harsh assessment of the situation. Having his poor opinion of his behavior verified by these admittedly unreliable sources diminished his good mood considerably. He quietly paid for his purchase and slunk out of the canteen, hoping no one would notice him go. He wasn't really hungry for the sandwich any longer.

As he passed the A&E department, he decided to check in with Mac Nab and see if he wanted a break for lunch. He thought he might also have a chat with Jeff Horton; maybe thank him for his help. He approached the triage desk to ask about the whereabouts of his colleagues just as the big bay doors swung open and the EMTs hustled in with a trolley bearing the victim of what must have been a terrible car wreck. She was bleeding profusely from a head wound and was covered in blood from what may have been chest wounds and a severed artery in her leg. She had small bleeding cuts all over her face and arms where bits of glass from the shattered windscreen had imbedded themselves in her skin.

Martin smelled the blood before he saw it. It made him recoil, reflexively. He felt the panic immediately – the terror clutching at his belly, causing him to become extremely nauseated. His chest was burning. He felt light-headed, like the blood was rushing away from his head. All of his senses were overloaded – he was aware of the sounds of the woman's screams, the sight of her bloodied body, the smell of her blood, the taste of bile in his mouth, and the way the sweat felt on his neck and his back. The overhead lights seemed brighter than the sun.

He reeled around, pushing himself away from the scene, trying to get a grip on what was happening to him. Blindly, he stumbled his way into a broom cupboard, where he was immediately and violently sick into the wheelie bin tucked inside. Disgusted with himself, he felt for his handkerchief to wipe his mouth, and sank to the floor beside the bin.

"Don't mind me," came a small, quiet voice, with just a hint of a catch in it.

"Who's there?" he demanded, angry and mortified that this moment of weakness that he still did not understand had been witnessed by anyone.

"Just me," the voice answered. It was female but that was all Martin could tell in the dark cupboard.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Same as you, I suspect."

"Are you ill? Do you need to be seen by a doctor?"

A bitter laugh came next. "I'm supposed to be a doctor." Then a pause. "I'm not here to be sick. Just hiding. Not feeling like being seen."

"Er, yes. I can understand that." Martin realized he ought to recognize this woman's voice. He'd heard it before. "What are you hiding from, then?"

"I don't want anyone to see me cry, do I? It's not easy to be a female training in surgery – the boys all give you grief about it anyway. If they saw me crying like I was before you showed up, I'd never hear the end of it. I'd have to leave surgery and take up something else."

"I see. What made you cry, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Oh, a patient. I met her on a pre-op rounds a couple weeks back and she seemed so scared. I saw her family with her and they were scared for her. She had surgery on her leg to improve her circulation – hoping not to have her foot amputated because of a diabetic foot ulcer. And the vascular piece went well. I mean it was crazy that day – Mr. Ellingham went down for the count and all – but she came through and it seemed like she was going to be okay. But the flesh necrotized anyhow. This morning I was there for the amputation and I was back making rounds with the surgeons when I had to see her family again. They remembered me. It was just terrible. I didn't know what to say. Everything seemed so cruel. I got through it but I needed to get a little peace before I had to go back up to the theatre and see another ortho hack another limb."

Martin's heart sunk. Mrs. Clark. Mrs. Marion Clark. Was this woman going to haunt him for the rest of his days? He fumbled at the wall trying to switch on the lights. He needed to know who his companion of the broom cupboard was. As the lights flickered on, he recognized Lakshmi Kapoor and she recognized him.

She turned red. "Mr. Ellingham . . . I had no idea it was you. God. This is embarrassing." She looked as though she wanted to sink into the floor. Martin knew exactly how she felt.

"Ms. Kapoor, isn't it?" She nodded miserably. "I'm sorry to have intruded on your solitude. But I am glad you told me the story. About Mrs. Clark, I mean. I did want to know what happened with her."

She nodded, and then grimaced as she got a whiff of the stink of his vomit.

He noticed, and blanched himself. "Er, yes. I'm sorry about that."

"We need to figure out a strategy for leaving," she said. "If we leave together, well, if anyone sees, there will be awful talk."

"Oh God." He hadn't thought of that.

"Since you came in last, you better go first – so anyone who saw you go in will see you come out alone. I'll hang on a bit longer then maybe no one will see us together."

"That seems like a sensible plan." Martin got to his feet.

"I'm sorry. Sorry to have you hear about Mrs. Clark like that, I mean. And I am glad you're back. You are well, aren't you, recovered from, whatever it was?" She was clumsy but sincere.

"Er, yes, thanks. I'm good as new," said Martin, even then realizing that his behavior in the broom cupboard indicated otherwise. He took a deep breath and walked back into the corridor.

His mind was still reeling. Mrs. Clark and her poor amputated foot. He remembered how serene her face had been as she lay there waiting for him to cut her. He remembered her husband, her son, her sister, all clinging to her and trying to prevent this horrible thing from happening to her. He remembered her sister saying to him "We're countin' on you." He was absolutely crushed to hear that the surgery had been for naught. The efforts he had made, the control he had lost, and all for naught. She'd lost the foot anyhow. Bloody hell.

His reaction to the patient in A&E was even more troubling. The sense of panic – for he now recognized that it was panic – was as strong and debilitating today as it had been before his rest break. Why was he panicking and how could it stop it? Twelve days of rest had done nothing to resolve this, nothing whatsoever. The feelings were as horrible and as intense as they had been in theatre four on that fateful Wednesday.

It wasn't being at the hospital – he'd been fine as a patient for the most part. And no trouble this morning in pre-op. He'd handled the deep vein thrombosis just fine as well, so it wasn't being a doctor that was the problem. In each case, he recalled being specifically aware of the smell – the smell of blood. Each time he had been overcome, something or someone near him had been bloody. But it couldn't be that. Not for him. Not after twelve years as a surgeon. Not after medical school and years of training. It couldn't possibly be that.

He took a deep breath again. He was going to need to find out, and soon. He was scheduled to operate tomorrow and right off the bat was an open AAA repair – one of the bloodiest procedures he performed. He headed to the changing rooms, with the thought of slipping into someone else's theatre to observe as a test of his reaction.

His locker was in a corner of the changing room and there was no one else about when he started replacing his suit and tie with blue surgical scrubs. As he was switching his mobile and his keys to new pockets and scuffing his feet into his clogs, he heard a noisy group come in. Some team must have finished up. He wondered who they were. He was startled when he recognized Mac Nab's voice.

"Hey Thompson, did you see Ellingham today?"

"Yea, Jamie, I did. He checked out a DVT for me on post-op. Seemed his usual self but I guess we'll know for sure tomorrow. Why do you ask?"

"Well he came down to A&E. I'm not sure what he was doing there. But all of a sudden he dove for the broom cupboard, and I'd swear I heard him hurling in there, and talking to himself. Very odd."

"You sure it was Ellingham? I mean, he had no reason to be down there, did he? Not unless you called him?"

Percy chimed in now "He was okay up in pre-op this morning. But you'll never guess what I saw on Friday. I was coming in – just before seven as usual - on the bike and up pulled Master Marty in his sweet blue Jag."

"Friday? He wasn't in Friday, was he? Maybe he had an appointment with Archibald or something." Thompson sounded puzzled.

"No, it's not that. HE didn't get out of the car. But you'll never guess who did."

"He was with someone? You've got to be kidding me, Percy. He's like a robot, that one. He wouldn't be coming here WITH someone, would he? Not at that hour."

"It was him alright. I could see him quite well. And hopping out of the passenger seat and giving him a cute little wave was none other than Foxy Fairfax herself. Then off he drives, cool as can be. Can you believe it? Bird like that? Giving ol' Ellingham a bit of you know what?" Percy was crowing.

"Not FAIRFAX, couldn't be." Jamie sounded stunned.

"I saw it, mate, saw it with my own eyes. It was her alright. Can't miss the hair and that sweet arse. She's pretty fit for a bird her age I must say. Can't say I blame ol' Marty - I would, you know, do her – I mean if I was him." Percy winked at Mac Nab when he said this.

Martin was by turns outraged and horrified. The thought that he was the object of such gossip and disdain was very painful. Even more awful was that fact that he had quite unknowingly opened Hope up to this kind of crude ridicule. In other days at other times he would have at least considered swaggering over and giving them a good chiding and then setting them to some miserable task just for spite. He probably could have just walked over, shown himself and said "Good Afternoon, Gentlemen," and they would have stopped, chastened. But now his primary instinct was to flee, to get as far away from them as he could.

X X X X X

Hope was in the middle of a particularly tricky yoga pose when her mobile rang. She considered letting it go – it was after ten and she could plausibly have been asleep. But she relented and untangled herself to reach for it. Probably her sister, Rosie, was the only one who would be calling at this hour. And she was usually good for a laugh on Mondays – details of her weekend clubbing with the pretty City crowd she ran with. She picked up the phone without checking who it was.

"Hello?" she said, breathlessly.

"Ah, Dr. Fairfax? Hope? It's Martin. Martin Ellingham." He sounded tentative and morose.

"Hello Martin. Are you okay? You don't sound well."

"I'm not sure. Are you home? Can I see you?"

"Where ARE you, Martin? I hear traffic. Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm at your corner, actually. Had the idea to come 'round and see you, but then I wondered if you were even home. Thought I'd better call first."

Hope was worried. He sounded dreadful. She wondered what could possibly be the matter and why he would have come here of all places. "I'm home. Do come over. We'll get you sorted."

She heard him hang up. She looked in the mirror in the front hall and saw that her hair was every which way and her face was still red from her exercise. She was wearing yoga pants and a sweat soaked tank top, and briefly wished she had asked him to wander about for a while longer so she could clean up and put on real clothes. Well it couldn't be helped. No worse than being in scrubs in the theatre.

The bell rang and she was right there to answer it. When she opened the door, she was aghast. It was pouring rain and Martin stood there, dripping wet, absolutely soaked to the skin, in scrubs and clogs with no sign of a coat, an umbrella or even his car.

"What is it? What's going on, Martin?" she asked as she motioned him to come in out of the rain.

"Haemophobia," he said. "I think I have haemophobia."


	10. Blood Phobia

**Losing It**

**Chapter 10 – Blood Phobia**

Hope stood there, looking at Martin with her mouth open in a perfectly round O. There were simply too many things to process. After a long minute of stunned silence, her medical training kicked in automatically.

"You're soaked through. And your lips are blue. You must be a block of ice! Come in here where it's warm before you catch pneumonia," she urged him, gesturing towards the front room.

Martin looked down and seemed just to have discovered that he was drenched, as if it hadn't previously occurred to him. "I'm wet – I don't want to track up your carpet. And pneumonia is caused by bacteria, or sometimes a virus. You don't get it from being cold." He looked stricken. "I shouldn't have come."

"Well you are here now, and I am not letting you leave until you are warmer. Up to the bath, I think. You can soak in some hot water while I throw those wet scrubs in the dryer. Nothing I have will come close to fitting you but I can get you a blanket or something to wrap up in."

Martin looked as helpless as a small child. She took his hand for just a moment. It was like an icicle. She shooed him towards the stairs.

"Up you go. Do you remember where the bath is? Can you run the taps yourself?"

Martin nodded his head but she wasn't sure which question he was answering, and she doubted his ability to comprehend the question in any event. She followed him up and pushed him ahead of her into the lavatory.

"I'm going to run the water – can you manage it from there?" He nodded again. She'd have to believe him. She couldn't bring herself to think about undressing him and bathing him, even if she was a doctor. She filled the large, cast iron tub with steaming water and made sure there were several fluffy towels on the warming rack.

"Stay as long as you like in here. I'll leave a blanket outside the door for you to wrap up in. Bring me the clothes when you come down and I'll get them in the dryer straight away. Do you think you could manage something to eat?"

He nodded again and with a long backward glance she left him. She found a soft fleece picnic rug and left it for him, then went down to the kitchen to see what she could come up with to feed him. She settled on soup – it was only tinned, but it should be warming. She put the kettle on for tea, and then pulled out a bottle of whiskey as well. Purely medicinal, she thought.

When Martin came downstairs at last, looking awkward and uncomfortable with the blanket wrapped around him like a toga, she had a place set at the table with a steaming bowl of soup, a mug of tea and a large measure of whiskey in a tumbler. She'd poured herself a tot, too – she supposed she was going to need fortification tonight. He sat, wordlessly, and added milk to his tea. He looked warmer but no less distraught.

She took the bundle of clothes from him and popped them in the dryer. Twenty minutes ought to make a world of difference. She came back to the table and watched him eat his soup, holding tight to the blanket with his other hand.

"So how did you get so wet? What were you doing out there in this weather?"

"Walking. Thinking."

"Where did you walk from? Your place?"

"Hospital."

"St. Thomas? That's miles away! It would take hours and hours. Couldn't you have driven? Or taken the tube?"

"I didn't set out to walk here, I just ended up here. I needed to clear my head. I started walking and walking and then it was dark and I just kept walking. When I passed the clock shop I knew I was near your place and I thought, I hoped, maybe you would talk me through this."

"You started before it got dark? Martin, you got here at nearly half-ten! How many hours were you out in this?"

"I dunno. Maybe since half-two or so. Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. You were probably going to sleep and you have work tomorrow. Thank you for the soup. I'll get my clothes and organize a taxi."

"Martin! You must be exhausted. And you are clearly in some distress. Why don't you drink up and tell me what's going on? You said something about what, haemophobia? What's that exactly and why would you think that you've got it?"

And so slowly, haltingly, with stops to bury his head in his hands, and more stops to drink the warm amber whiskey, he told her about the panic, the terror, the blood. He left nothing out except the nasty, personal gossip of the juniors in the changing room. He couldn't bring himself to tell her about that.

"I can't seem to shake it. When the attack comes over me, all I can see is poor Mrs. Clark and her family, clinging to her. I can't cut her. I can't cut someone's mother – someone's wife. And not just someone anonymous. I can SEE them. Her son, her husband. I met them. I spoke to them. I promised to take care of her. I get sweaty, my heart starts racing, and I start to hyperventilate. I get nauseated and as you witnessed, I need to vomit. The blood seems to rush out of my head and then over I go."

"Oh, Martin, luv, that sounds awful. I can't imagine how it must be for you. I'm sorry." She went over and knelt before him, taking his hands in hers. They were warmer now but seemed to tremble. He seemed surprised at her touch and looked up.

"Do you mean that? When you say that, do you mean it?"

"Which part? When I say what?" Hope was confused.

"I've heard you say it before – it's a signature line of yours. Don't worry 'luv', this won't hurt. Do you really love them? Love your patients? Or is it just a farce?"

She thought about this. "Well maybe not in a personal sense – but I love them in the sense that I love humanity. And it's a way to reassure them – others say 'dearie' or "ducks' or whatever – 'luv' is just what we said in my house growing up. Why? Does it bother you, when I say it, I mean? Did it bother you when I said it to you – I didn't mean any harm by it?"

"I don't. Never did. Never could."

"What couldn't you do? Call someone 'luv'?"

"Love humanity. Love my patients. I never tried to reassure them. I saw the arteries, the veins, the medical conditions. They weren't people, they were cases, they were challenges, they were work. I couldn't call them luv; I couldn't even call them ma'am or sir. I could only call them Mrs. abdominal aortic aneurysm or Mr. blocked carotid artery. Male, aged 70, smoker with high blood pressure."

She considered this carefully before answering. She sat herself on the arm of his chair and put one arm around his shoulder. "I think you needed to do that, to keep your emotional distance from the patients. I mean I can't imagine how you would cut people up every day thinking you were plunging your scalpel into someone you loved. That would tear you to pieces. You couldn't have made it a week, let alone twelve years thinking that way. Don't beat yourself up for maintaining your objectivity. You are a fine surgeon – one of the very best. We all do what we need to do to get through it."

"But what do I do now - now that I've somehow lost that objectivity?"

"I dunno, luv. I really don't. But you can't be the first this has happened to, right? There have to be doctors, therapists, someone who would know how to help you through this. We'll find someone. It will look better in the morning. Everything does."

He didn't seem convinced. He looked very weary and pale; the whiskey was starting to affect him as well. She could see he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Look, you need some sleep. I'll bet your clothes are dry now, and you can put them on and get into bed here. "

"No, no. I couldn't. I already put you out of your bed and inconvenienced you once – I couldn't bear to do it again."

"You'd be doing me a favor, actually. I'm not going to be able to sleep worried sick about you. If I call you a taxi and send you home, I'll just be up all night worrying. If you stay here, at least I will be able to know you are alright."

With that she pulled the clothes out of the dryer and handed them to him. "You get changed. I'm going upstairs to run through the shower and get changed myself. I want you to finish that whiskey before you come up. Doctor's orders."

Martin nodded, and watched her go upstairs. He took a big swig of the whiskey. He was embarrassed at how much he needed this, the comfort this woman had to offer. Slowly, he pulled on his boxers and the reassuringly familiar scrubs. They were warm from the dryer, and he felt much better not relying on a blanket to cover himself. He draped the blanket back over his shoulders and listened to the water running for Hope's shower. Sip by slow sip he polished off the glass of whiskey.

X X X X X

Hope awoke to screams. It took her only seconds to realize what was happening, and she leapt out of the nest she'd made on the sofa and sprinted up the stairs to the bedroom where Martin had gone to sleep so peacefully a few hours earlier. He was sitting up and screaming but his eyes were closed and he didn't seem to be aware of her. A nightmare, she thought. Well who wouldn't have one after what he'd been through?

"Shh, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay, luv. I promise." She sat beside him on the bed and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. She wasn't sure whether or not she should wake him. He seemed to calm just a bit at her touch, so she began to pat his back and then to rub his shoulders. Slowly the terror seemed to subside and he relaxed enough to lie back down of his own accord. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He looked warm and content now. And so peaceful. She studied his features in repose and it dawned on her then just how handsome he was, or at least he could be, when he wasn't acting like a tyrant. He seemed younger, softer, even more vulnerable. Irresistible. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to stroke his cheek, his ear, and then the line of his jaw. He shifted in his sleep, and mumbled. She worried that he was falling back into another nightmare. Thinking she'd better stay there to tend him if he started screaming again, she slipped under the covers and curled up beside him.

X X X X X

Martin woke at six, feeling an incredible sense of well-being. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and another moment to realize he was not alone. Hope, clad in the same, modest, little-girl flannel pyjamas, was curled up next to him, burrowed into his warmth. Her hair was spread across his arm and he could smell a lovely floral scent that must be her shampoo. He breathed it in luxuriously, and then reflexively tightened his arm around her back.

He didn't recall how she came to be there and he wasn't exactly sure what it meant that she was there. But it was intensely comforting to know he was not alone. He had slept well and soundly – he wasn't sure if it was Hope's reassuring presence, or the whiskey, or the long walk that had done it. He stretched a little, being careful not to disturb her. She murmured something unintelligible and nestled closer to him, one warm hand snaking across his chest. It was wonderful. It made him feel strong, and powerful, and in control.

He examined her features. He marveled at her tiny ear and her long eyelashes and the way her hair formed long spirals of curls, like coiled springs. She had beautiful skin, like porcelain. Despite her size, there was fierceness, a spirit there that transcended her frame and made her seem larger than life. He put a finger on her rosebud lips and wondered idly what it might be like to kiss her there.

That thought caused him great consternation. Here I am taking advantage of her in the worst way. She's been nothing but kind and supportive, and first I go and make her the butt of that awful gossip and now I've somehow wormed my way again into her bed. Uninvited. Probably unwelcome. Certainly without doing anything for her.

And what did you figure, Martin, that she fancied you? After you vomited all over her? Cried in front of her? Showed up in a state in the middle of the night so she could coddle you like a toddler? What woman would fancy that? And what, now you think because you're here, she's going to let you kiss her, let you make love to her? You're worse than Percy. Worse than all of them. What would she see in you now anyway? You're afraid of blood, afraid to perform surgery, afraid to do your job. And what else can you do? Tinker with clocks? What a joke.

He gently untangled himself from her and pulled the coverlet over her shoulders. He crept down the stairs and was putting on his clogs when she came hurtling down, calling his name.

"I'm here, just going actually," he called from the foyer.

"Are you alright? Sleep okay?" She seemed concerned and a bit confused.

"Fine. So sorry to have troubled you last night. I'm not sure what came over me." He was stiff and formal.

"Won't you stay for some coffee? I'll make some porridge? We could take the tube in together."

He blanched at the thought of what would be said in the changing rooms if they arrived at the hospital together this morning. "No. Not a good idea. I, err, need to go home first. I'll get a taxi."

"Well, have a good day then." She looked at him tentatively, and then went to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He immediately pushed her away.

"Don't. Don't do that." He turned and went for the door.

She was crushed. Hurt and dismay were written on her face. He couldn't bear to look at her and so he didn't. He walked through the door and he didn't look back.


	11. Bloodthirsty

Losing It

Chapter 11 – Bloodthirsty

Hope had been on duty for twelve hours and managed five epidurals and done the gassing for three Caesarian sections by the time six o'clock Sunday morning came around. She was never quite sure why so many babies were born at these odd hours, but the rush of seeing these new little lives begin was what kept her coming back for these overnight shifts. Now she was knackered. And she had another night just like this one starting in twelve hours. She headed for the changing room and wondered about just putting her coat on over her rumpled scrubs for the trip home, instead of showering here and changing back into street clothes. It was tempting to shave half an hour off the time between now and the moment she could fall asleep in her own cozy bed.

As she reached in her locker, she saw that the message light on her mobile was blinking. She wondered who had been looking for her – her family and close friends were used to her eccentric weekend schedules by now. As she punched in her pass-code, various scenarios, each less probable than the one before, crossed her mind. Did someone want to take her Sunday night shift? Had Grace been in an accident? Had Rosie gotten engaged? None of them prepared her for what she heard when the message began.

"Hope, sss Martin. I've made ssssuch a messs of thingsss. I wanted to kisssss you but I was a fool and I don't deserve it. You don't deserve the trouble. Damn messss of thingsss. I needed to ssssay goodbye. Oh Hope."

Martin? Was he slurring? And what did he mean by this? She was very worried by the sound of his voice. He seemed despondent. And the comment about needing to say goodbye - was he trying to tell her something? Would he do something really stupid? She looked at the call log – the message had been left at 2 o'clock this morning. Oh God. If he'd done something drastic, it might be too late.

She was wide awake and frantic now. She had been very deeply hurt by the way he had left things Tuesday morning and had spent most of the week trying to forget he existed. And that had not been hard to do, because he was nowhere to be found around the hospital. Officially, he had been placed on administrative leave, whatever that meant. And she had received some very odd looks from Mac Nab and Thompson when she asked them, she thought quite casually, if they knew how he was doing.

Still it was hard not to react to the obvious distress in his message. And no matter what she told herself, she felt something for him. She admired his quiet dignity and knew that the haemophobia thing must be tearing him apart. And she had a nice memory of the tingle that went up her spine when he helped her change the light bulb. If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit she was still curious about what kind of spark might be growing between them.

Just then she saw Diana Webster stride up to her locker, shucking off blood spattered scrubs.

"Ms. Webster? It's Diane, isn't it?"

"Diana, actually. Mum was nuts about the Princess – my twin is Charlotte and I don't think Mum will ever forgive her not being a boy."

Hope smiled at this. "Surgery at this hour? What happened?"

"Oh, I've been on call all weekend with Bell. We've been operating on a crash victim since three. I'm on until six tonight so I'm guessing I'm not done yet. What about you?"

"Obstetrics. Three C-sections during the night – one was a set of twins."

"Lovely."

"Yes they are. Diana, I need a favor. I've got a feeling that Ellingham is in trouble and I need to find someone who knows where he lives. Do you know who would?"

Diana looked at her long and hard. Finally she replied, "Dr. Fairfax, if anyone else had asked me that question, I would have told them to call you. Word around here is that you and Ellingham are an item."

Hope gulped and her cheeks flushed, remembering Martin sitting in her lounge wrapped only in her picnic rug. "Where would anyone get that idea? Not a bit of truth to it."

"Well I heard it from Percy. He's been telling anyone who would listen. But you know he's got it in for Ellingham so who knows what his reason is.

"Well next time you see Percy, you can tell him to stop it. You said you were working with Bell. That's Griff Bell, right? Is he still here?"

"Should be. He was still in post op when I came down here."

"Thanks, Diana. And please, I'd appreciate your discretion on this until I figure out what is going on."

"Yeah, alright. It's tough enough being a girl around here."

"Exactly."

X X X X X

At seven thirty, a taxi dropped Hope in front of a posh block of modern flats in Kensington. After she had made embarrassing promises to Griff Bell, he had called his girlfriend and awakened her, to have her call a friend in admissions, who had been promised an astonishing amount of fine French wine in exchange for taking a peek in Martin's file and disclosing his address. They all could be fired for this.

She strode into the marble-tiled lobby and up to the reception desk. A uniformed concierge greeted her.

"Mr. Ellingham's flat, please."

"I'm sorry, he's not answering."

"You haven't even tried." Hope was exasperated.

"Well I just did – for that very insistent man over there. And we called three times and he didn't answer. I'm sorry, but he must not be in, or if he is in, he must not want visitors."

Hope whirled around to look at Ellingham's other early morning caller. A balding, bespectacled man in a golf shirt looked back at her. Suddenly he seemed to recognize her.

"Fairfax? Foxy Fairfax? Is that you? We'll I'll be. You haven't changed a whit."

"Yes, I'm Hope Fairfax. But do I know you? No one's called me Foxy since med school, at least not to my face."

"Chris Parsons. We were at St. Mary's for a while together."

"Parsons. I remember you. Sorry I didn't recognize you. How are you?"

"I'm fine. Though I am royally pissed at his eminence, Mr. Ellingham. Stood me up completely last night – he was supposed to meet me at my hotel for dinner last night and he never showed. No message or anything and now he's not answering his phone or his buzzer. I was just going to try to hunt him down at St. Thomas's."

"Well I'm looking for him too. No point going to the hospital; I've just come from there. He hasn't been there since Monday as far as anyone knows. He's having some medical issues, I guess you'd say. He left me a very weird message on my mobile this morning around two and I am very worried about him. Worried he might harm himself."

"Martin? Martin Ellingham? You're sure?"

"No, I'm not sure but it was a disturbing message. He sounded despondent, he was slurring his words. Might have been drunk except he never gets drunk. I wondered, well, I wondered whether he'd taken something. He said something about needing to say goodbye."

"Oh God." Chris raced back to the reception desk. "You, there, we need someone to let us into Mr. Ellingham's flat. Immediately. It's a medical emergency."

"I can't do that sir. Mr. Ellingham is very particular. He would be most unpleased if I let you in."

"Well I know how bloody particular he is but he won't have a chance to be particular any longer if he's up there by himself dying, now would he? This is Dr. Fairfax, his doctor. He called her – she has a message from him and he is gravely ill. We need to get up there. We need to do it now."

The man behind the desk blanched, now not certain which fate was worse – a dead Ellingham or one who was angry with him. Dead might actually be better, given the man in question.

Hope added her own plea, "Something is really wrong. You know him, right? He's been acting weird lately, hasn't he? He's ill. He needs help."

The concierge considered. It had been weird, actually, that he'd seen Ellingham around so much during the last couple weeks. He hadn't been following his usual schedule.

"Well, perhaps I can make a well- being check. If he is in distress, I will let you in. That is the best I can do."

"Thank you!" exclaimed Hope. Chris nodded and handed the man twenty pounds to encourage him.

He looked at them and then sighed and motioned them to follow him to the lift. They jumped at the chance. They all exited at the sixth floor. At Martin's door, the concierge knocked loudly and called Martin's name. They could hear music playing, then a loud thud. The concierge looked alarmed. Again he knocked and again there was no answer. Finally, he took a deep breath and unlocked the door. Immediately they all noticed a foul odor - vomit and whiskey overlaid with the unmistakable stink of rubbish left to rot. The concierge turned green and fled immediately, leaving Hope and Chris alone with the open door and the task of finding out what was wrong.

They found him in the lounge, lying on the floor in a pool of vomit next to a leather chesterfield sofa, similarly besmirched. There were several empty whiskey bottles on the table along with a number of sticky tumblers. One bottle had obviously spilled at some point, as it was on its side with a dark pool on the carpet below it. He was dressed in filthy pyjamas and looked as if he hadn't shaved in several days.

Both Hope and Chris felt their instincts, honed in their medical training, take over. Chris rolled Martin onto his back and Hope felt at his neck for a pulse. His heartbeat was strong and he was breathing fine, but he felt sweaty and clammy at the same time.

"Look for pill bottles," she instructed, "and see if you can find his stethoscope."

Chris went rummaging around in the lavatory, the bedrooms and the kitchen. He found the stethoscope on the bureau and brought it back to Hope.

"No sign he's taken pills. There's a nearly full bottle of hydrocodone in the lav – if he'd wanted to do damage, he would have taken that. Nothing else but antacids and paracetomol."

"That's a relief. The pain pills are probably from when they stitched up his hand." Hope hesitated. "Did you see any anti-depressants?"

"No, but why do you ask? I mean, I can't imagine Martin taking something like that."

"Well he's been through a bad patch lately."

"Are you going to tell me what's up?" He looked at her quizzically.

"He's such a private person, Chris. I know you two go back a long while but I think we'd better wait and let him tell you himself."

Chris nodded, knowing how his friend valued his privacy. Looking around the room, he saw some photos on the mantel above the fireplace. He picked one up and brought it back to show Hope. It showed two impossibly young men, recognizable as Parsons with a full head of hair and no glasses, and Ellingham with shaggy blond locks and a bit of a tan.

"That's the two of us. We were twenty-two then, ready to take the medical world by storm. He's been a good friend, if a difficult one. I couldn't stand the sight of him when we first met but now, I'd do anything for him."

"Well where do we start? Should we call an ambulance or try to work this out ourselves?"

"Well if he's just drunk, he'd be mortified if we hauled him to hospital."

"I was thinking the same thing. Do you think we can get him to vomit up the rest of the whiskey? Then put him under the shower and pour coffee into him, see if we can sober him up?"

"Yeah. Help me get him in the bath tub and I'll see what I can do."

"Okay. I'll see if I can make his bed up and get rid of whatever stinky thing is in that bin."

Together they worked on Martin. Chris got him to vomit a couple times and then peeled off the dirty clothes and turned the shower on him. Hope put fresh linens on his bed and found clean pyjamas. He was dazed and confused and still completely inebriated. When they had him cleaned up and put to bed, they tackled the disasters in the kitchen and the lounge.

X X X X X

Martin awoke around three, tucked in his bed in fresh pyjamas with a pounding headache and only a vague recollection of how he had gotten there. He heard music playing in the reception room and wondered what he had left on. There was a large glass of water and a packet of paracetomol on his bedside table, almost as if someone had known he would be waking up with a headache. There was a savory smell of something in the kitchen and he realized he was ravenous.

Padding to the lounge in his bare feet, he was startled to see Chris Parsons sitting on the sofa, reading the paper and drinking a cup of tea. A familiar jazz CD was playing in the background. The room looked tidy except for a damp spot on the carpet near the sofa.

"Martin! Good of you to join us. Glad to see you back among the living."

"Chris. What is going on? When did you get here? How did you get in? I'm sorry but I don't remember what happened."

"No, from the look of things there are probably a couple days worth of things you don't remember. Took yourself on quite a bender, didn't you. Haven't seen you do that since Edith gave your ring back."

Martin turned pale, and then green.

"You were supposed to meet me at the hotel for dinner last night. We fixed it up a couple weeks ago by email. When you didn't show up, I figured you were operating or something so by nine, I gave in and ordered room service. When I hadn't heard from you by this morning and you weren't answering your phone, I came over here to roust you out and give you a piece of my mind before going back to Cornwall. The guy at reception couldn't raise you on the intercom either. I was about to run over to St. Thomas's to track you down when Hope Fairfax showed up in a tizzy about a message you left on her mobile this morning about saying goodbye. She said it sounded like you had taken something and she was worried you might have tried something really stupid."

"Hope? Hope was here?"

"Yep. Still is, actually. I put her to bed in your spare room about an hour ago. She'd been working all night, and then came here and helped me sort you out and deal with the disgusting mess you had around here. She was exhausted. I made her call in sick and have a lie down."

"Hope? I called Hope?"

"Two a.m. call. Haven't you heard you aren't supposed to drink and dial? Very embarrassing. And you, sir, need to fill me in on what's up with the lovely Dr. Fairfax. You never said anything to me about you and her."

"No, I don't suppose I did." Martin looked stunned. "She came over here? She cleaned up my filth? She's still here?" He couldn't quite believe it.

"She must see something in you, mate, because she was in a lather about the possibility that you might have offed yourself. You two have a thing going?"

"No. Not a thing, as such. She's been very kind to me though. Kinder than I deserve."

Chris sighed. "Well do you think you can fill me in on what's been going on with you? Hope refused to tell me anything other than you'd been through a bad patch and were on medical leave from the hospital."

Martin looked at his friend. "Is there any more tea? Let me start with that and then I can tell you the whole story."

And so slowly, over cups of tea and a take-away curry that Chris had thoughtfully picked up, Martin haltingly told his friend about the day he'd broken down. About Mrs. Clark and her diabetic foot. About Harry Godwin's stitches and Dennis Sedgwick's funeral. About dinner with Hope and hospital gossip and Lakshmi Kapoor and his long walk in the rain across London. About Haemophobia, and despondence, and making a fool of himself and drinking himself into a stupor. When he finished, he put his head in his hands and wept.

"Martin. Pull yourself together, mate. That is a rough patch, no doubt about it. But it's not like you're dying or anything. From what Hope said, I thought you must have inoperable cancer or something. This is a problem you can deal with. Therapy or something. And even if it is permanent, even if you never perform surgery again, you've still got your health. Still got your first-rate brain and loads of medical talent and training that most blokes would give their eye-teeth for. And look at Hope. There's a lovely girl whom you haven't scared off, despite trying mightily to do so. She sees something worthwhile in you, too."

"I don't deserve her. Not like this. Not broken-down and depressed and unable to work. She deserves better."

"That's the thing about women. None of us deserve them. You think I look over at Tracy of a morning and say 'Gee, she's so lucky to have me? I am such a ruddy good catch? And I deserve to have the love of this wonderful woman.' Not bloody likely. I look over at her and thank my lucky stars she sees in me whatever it is she sees in me. Me with my bald head and my specs and my bit of a paunch. Me with my snoring and my golf habit and my socks on the floor. I don't deserve her. And that's why we've been married ten years now."

"That's different. You and Tracy, well you just belong together. And you're happy together, both of you."

"Martin, the one thing you do deserve is to be happy - and to have the chance to try to make someone else happy. Hope deserves to be happy too. Give it a chance. Maybe she's the one and maybe not. But you'll never find out if you keep pushing everyone away."


	12. Bleeding Hearts

Author's Note – Rating has been raised to T to give me a bit more leeway with this chapter and one or two more.

Losing It

Chapter 12 – Bleeding Hearts

When Hope woke at seven, the flat was so quiet she wondered if she was there all alone. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair out of her face. She felt more human after some sleep, but her scrubs certainly showed every bit of the twelve hours she'd worked in them, not to mention the six hours of seeing after Martin and a few hours of sleeping in them to boot. She slid out of Martin's spare room bed and tidied it up, then rummaged in her rucksack for her street clothes. She felt much better after she donned the black leggings and the print tunic dress she had rolled up in the bottom of her bag. She found an elastic band too, and managed to wrestle her hair into some semblance of a pony tail. Black ballet flats and a touch of lip gloss and she was herself again. Time to face the music – she was pretty sure Martin was going to be steamed at her for invading his private sanctuary like this.

First she peeked into Martin's bedroom and saw it was vacant. A good sign, she thought. She wondered where he and Chris had gone and whether they had left her a note. When she arrived in the lounge, she saw that she had been wrong. She wasn't alone - Martin was stretched out on the sofa, reading the paper. No whiskey in sight; just a large glass of water. It was interesting to observe Martin relaxing at home, in his own habitat.

"Well you look like you're feeling better."

Martin was startled. He leapt up when he heard her voice.

"Hope. I didn't hear you come in." He didn't look too mad – that was a promising sign.

"Don't get up on my account. How's your head feeling?"

"Fine, other than a terminal case of embarrassment. I understand I rang your mobile in the middle of the night and left you an inappropriate message. I'm sorry. I clearly wasn't myself." He looked uncomfortable.

"Don't worry about it - as long as you are alright, then no harm was done."

"Well, clearly I wasn't handling things very well. I am grateful to you and to Chris for all you did."

"Is Chris here somewhere?"

"No, I sent him off to catch the last train to Truro this evening. Tracy would have my head if I kept him away an extra day. She can be a bit scary."

Hope wondered about this woman who could frighten the esteemed Mr. Ellingham who himself was considered more than bit scary by nearly everyone at the hospital.

"Can I get you anything, then Martin?"

"No, I should be asking if I can get you anything. You've done quite enough. Chris and I finished off the curry he brought in, but I could cook you some eggs or something. When did you eat last?"

"I'm not really hungry, but I would love a cup of tea if it isn't any trouble."

Martin was glad of something to do. He went in the kitchen to see about the tea, still marveling at the fact that Hope was here and still mortified at the reason why. He thought she looked lovely tonight, but he wished she had left her hair down. He didn't have the nerve to say anything about it.

When he came in with the tea, he found her sitting on the sofa with her shoes off and her feet tucked under her, leafing through the latest BMJ he'd left on the side table. A woman after his own heart. She looked up at him and smiled when he brought her the cup.

"Black, with sugar, if I remembered right."

"Brilliant." She took a sip and sat back. He brought his own cup over and sat beside her.

"So, then, do you want to hear it?" she asked.

"Hear what?" he replied, anxiously.

"The message you left."

"Oh. Well I don't really want to but I guess I had better. I have no memory of it at all."

Hope dug her mobile out of her bag and played the message back on the speaker so they both could hear it. Martin looked stricken as it played. There was a long silence between them.

Quietly, Hope said "so the question I have for you is did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what?"

"That you wanted to kiss me." She looked down at her feet first, then summoned her courage and looked straight at him. "If you did, I want you to know that it would be fine with me. I would, well, I would like it if you did."

He looked up at her, thunderstruck. There was light in his eyes. He seemed to be considering his answer very carefully. As he did, a shadow slowly fell across his face. A visible pall. She could see it happen but could think of nothing to say. Finally he took her hand between both of his. It was so tiny compared to his, but it was warm and strong and it made him feel better to be connected to another human being like this.

"Hope, I can't. My life is a mess. I feel as if I am losing my mind as well as my career. I haven't anything to offer you. I don't deserve to kiss you." He looked miserable.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then withdrew her hand. "I see." It came out choked with emotion.

"Hope, don't be sad. Not over me. There isn't anyone else, only you. It's just that I don't know what's going on with me. You deserve better."

"Martin, do you think you are the first person to suffer a set-back? An illness? A bump in the career path? Do you think no one else has ever felt like you do? Do you just assume that I can't understand what you are going through? That is really arrogant."

"It is just a fact. I've lost the ability to do the only thing I am good at; the only thing I ever wanted to do. And I feel like I am losing myself."

Hope sighed and took a sip of her tea. "Do you remember when you asked me why I became a gasser?" Martin nodded. "Well I only told you part of the tale. When I was growing up I loved children – I was crazy about them. I was in demand for baby-minding all over Bath. I knew exactly what I wanted when I grew up; I wanted to have a whole houseful of children of my own and I wanted to be a doctor for sick children. I wanted to dedicate myself to curing all the sickest children I could and be their champion. I went to Oxford to study medicine and planned to specialize in paediatrics."

"Did you change your mind? Was it the suffering?"

"Loads of people think they want to do paediatrics – it is very noble. Many of them wash out because they can't handle seeing the children suffer so much. They end up as GPs or whatever. But I could handle the suffering as long as I had confidence that I could help."

"So what happened then?"

"Cancer happened. I was 20 years old and an excellent student and well on my way when I found out I had cervical cancer. It turned out those innocent-looking tablets the doctor had given Mum when she was pregnant with me were DES, and that made me a DES daughter. If you haven't followed the literature on that one, it meant I had forty times the normal risk of getting certain cancers, and I was not the lucky one." Hope had to stop for a moment, and Martin looked at her carefully, in shock at her confession.

"But it must have turned out alright – I mean here you are, aren't you?"

"Well, in the biggest sense, things were alright because I survived. But lots of things were not alright. It was devastating to find out I needed a radical hysterectomy at 20, and that I would never be able to have children. The funny thing looking back was that my biggest worry at the time was that I would die a virgin. Not that I might die, not that I might lose my hair or miss out on school or my future or my career. I threw a big de-flowering party with a keg of Dad's finest and invited the entire rowing team for a shag." She looked at him. "Don't worry, they didn't take me up on it. Turns out, very few university men are into shagging a girl with cancer. Even a drunk girl with cancer."

"Hope, you don't have to tell me this," Martin started but she cut him off; "I need to tell you this. There is more to tell."

He nodded and she continued. "I finally persuaded a very good friend to relieve me of my maidenhood and to promise to make love to me after the surgery, no matter what, so he could tell me how I had changed, what was different. Both were accomplished with lots of tears and promises. No matter what he said, it was different for me because I knew what was missing even if he couldn't tell."

"What happened after the surgery? Is that where you got interested in being an aenesthetist?"

"No, the surgery was successful and after a round of radiation, they pronounced me well. I had taken off one term of school but I was able to make it up during the summer. I should have been back on track, ready to take on the world of paediatrics, ready to make that part of my dream come true even if the dream of having a houseful of my own children wasn't in the cards any longer. But when I got to St. Mary's to do my clinical work, I found that I couldn't do it. I simply couldn't be on the paediatric wards at all. I went numb. I cried a lot."

"Because of the sick children?"

"No, because of their parents. In each mother and father I saw myself or, rather, saw what was not going to be. Over and over again, my heart being broken - each and every time a child said 'mummy' or a mother soothed the child or a father asked us to take care of his boy. There were good parents and horrid parents. The horrid ones were the worst because it was as though God was laughing at me saying look at this person, even she who broke her baby's arm or took narcotics while she was pregnant or let her boyfriend beat her daughter, even she can have a baby but not you." Tears were running down Hope's face now and her shoulders were shaking, just like they had at Dennis's funeral. He now realized how the death of a child would have hurt her more than he could have imagined.

"How did you get through it then?" he asked, gently. As he asked, he ever so carefully placed an arm around her.

She looked up at him. "By focusing on what I still had. I was alive. I still had the rest of my body which worked just fine. I had family and friends. I was capable and had studied hard and had the opportunity to be a doctor. There were ways to be a doctor and have a fulfilling career outside paediatrics. I told myself one day, if I still wanted to be a mum, I could foster or adopt or something. And if not, there were plenty of people who were childless but happy. I made myself determined to be one of them. And now, I've been quietly working my way back, all these years later. About two years ago I started taking a couple shifts a week in obstetrics just to see if I could. It is bittersweet, but I love the babies and love to help them along. I am in a place now that I can handle that, handle helping the mums bring them into the world."

Martin was taking this in. His arm was still around her and there was part of him that clearly wanted to comfort her if he could figure out how to do it. Hope was feeling drained by her confession and worried about what Martin might think of her now. University men were not the only ones who shied away from girls who had cancer, even women who'd been over it for more than sixteen years.

He leaned over and kissed her. It was a simple and chaste kiss but it surprised both of them. She was surprised at how gentle and tender it was. Martin was a big man, known to be abrupt and sometimes scary. Yet he kissed her softly, with care and emotion. He was surprised at how substantial she was. He would forever think of her as his very own Titania, his fairy queen, and somehow he thought kissing her might be like kissing thin air. But her mouth was warm and solid and real. It welcomed him. He kissed her again, with more fervor, his hands cupping her face. Her arms went around his neck as she returned the kiss warmly. He felt her body press against his chest, and he was delighted to discover that under the shapeless clothes she favored, she had warm and yielding curves that fit against him perfectly. Not remotely like holding a creature of the air.

At that moment his mobile rang. The look she gave him clearly said you're not planning to answer that are you. He looked at her wryly.

"It's ten o'clock and that will be Chris. He told me before he left he was going to ring me every night at ten, and if I didn't answer, he would send in an ambulance. I'm afraid if I don't answer this we'll be even more rudely interrupted." Reluctantly he broke away from her and picked up the phone.

"Ellingham."

"Yes Chris, I'm here. Are you still on the train?"

"Mm. Yes. Give my best to Tracy."

"Hope? Er, yes. She's here. We were just having a cup of tea." She smiled at this explanation for their recent activity.

"Yes, I'll tell her."

"Yes, I know. I will call Odd first thing in the morning." She looked at him quizzically. Odd? Who or what was Odd?

"Good night. Speak to you tomorrow." He hung up.

She looked at him expectantly. He said nothing.

"So, what are you supposed to tell me? And what is Odd?"

"Oh. I was supposed to tell you he enjoyed meeting you. And Odd is the nickname of a friend from medical school – Oliver Denton-Davies. He's Doctor Odd, I guess, now. He's a psychiatrist. Chris thinks I ought to speak to him about what has been going on – see if he can make a diagnosis and tell me what to do next."

"That sounds like a good plan." She looked at him with a question in her eyes – were they going to get back to where they had been before Chris had rung?

"Hope, we've been going at this all backwards. I think we need to start at the beginning."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I need to take you out. I'll book a table - somewhere with decent food. Maybe we can hear some music or see a play after. We should get to know each other better under normal conditions. Before. Well, just before."

"That sounds lovely."

"Thursday?"

"Oh, I can't Thursday – its Susan Millington's hen party Thursday night." Martin made a face at that, the roll of his eyes making it perfectly clear that he approved neither of hen parties nor of Susan Millington.

"Friday?"

"Yes, that will be perfect."

"Good. I'll make arrangements and ring you later in the week."

"Smashing." Hope slid her feet back into her shoes and picked up her rucksack and her coat.

"Oh, let me get dressed and I will drive you home."

"Don't do that. You look comfortable. I'll get a taxi. I'm sure that nice porter downstairs will help me.

Martin knew she was right. He bent to kiss her again, with his hands on her shoulders. There was promise in that kiss; promise that would have to wait to be fulfilled.


	13. Bloodhounds

Losing It

Chapter 13 – Bloodhounds

Martin slept like the dead that night, and woke feeling refreshed and more positive about his life than he had since what he now referred to as The Incident. It didn't hurt that he'd dreamt about Hope all night long. There was nothing untoward about the dreams – they were lovely, light-filled scenes of the two of them spending time together in perfectly innocuous and pleasant situations, like reading side by side before a crackling fire in a holiday cottage, or sunning on the deck of a sailboat in a blue sea, or ice skating on a frozen pond. Nothing he actually did in real life of course, but a sense of possibility hung in the air.

He was less positive about the prospect of getting in touch with Odd. What had seemed perfectly reasonable when he was talking to Chris the previous day now seemed an insurmountable challenge. It wasn't that he had a problem with Odd – quite the contrary. They had bonded over their cadaver at the start of gross anatomy in medical school. Martin, and Odd too, knew that Odd owed his medical career to Martin for his help in that course. They had been friends ever since, despite being possibly as different as two men could be.

The Honourable Dr. Oliver Denton-Davies was the youngest son of the ninth Viscount Alden and the grandson of the fourth Earl of Newton. His mother, the Lady Lucinda, was a baroness in her own right. He was not handsome but beautiful, like a Greek statute, with the careless polish and nonchalance that belongs only to those to the manor born. He had every social grace and was at ease no matter where he went and with whomever he found himself. He was in a deeply committed relationship with an Italian tenor from La Scala named Antonio Liberi. They took their holidays on the Riviera and threw parties that made every social column in London.

Had he lived two hundred years earlier, no doubt his doting father would have bought him a commission in some fabled regiment or a living in a comfortable parish, or possibly married him off to the nearest heiress. In modern times, this translated to supporting Odd in his choice of profession and setting him up with exquisite and discrete consulting rooms in Belgravia, where the Viscount clearly envisioned his son spending a few hours a week dispensing antidepressants to Lady This or anti-anxiety tablets to Lord That and then repairing to the tennis courts. Odd had surprised them all by devoting his career to treating psychological disorders arising from traumas – soldiers returning from battle, victims of crimes or terror attacks, survivors of natural disasters or unspeakable abuse. He had written a number of scholarly articles and a best-selling self-help book, and was in demand as a consultant all over the U.K.

Chris apparently anticipated Martin's change of heart and contacted Odd himself that Monday morning to suggest that he touch base with their old friend. Without giving away any personal details, he let Odd know that Martin might be in need of some of Odd's professional advice. That was all it took for Odd to ring Martin when he had a break in his schedule.

"Ellingham, old man. How are you? It's been too long."

"Odd. Good of you to ring. I was just talking about you yesterday with Chris Parsons."

"And how is Parsons? I haven't seen him in an age. We'll have to drag him up here and have dinner and reminisce about cadavers."

Martin laughed at this. "I can't imagine you come across many cadavers in your present line of work."

"Nor you, I suspect. Not with the golden hands."

"Er, yes. Well, I'm having a bit of a break now from that." Martin's voice was strained and Odd with years of practice knew he'd found the area of Martin's unease.

"You, take a break? I don't believe it." Odd's tone was light but he was probing.

"Yes, well, it's been somewhat unexpected." Martin paused for a long minute. "Actually, I had been thinking of ringing you, to see if you might be able to work me in, as, er, a patient. Nothing urgent exactly but I think I could use your professional opinion."

"But of course." Odd sounded relaxed, as if he were inviting Martin to have lunch, but he was paying attention to every nuance. "Would you be able to come by this afternoon? I think I have some time around three if that suits you?" He would have to rework four appointments to make that happen but if Martin were serious about consulting a psychiatrist, Odd knew there was more to this that was being let on.

"This afternoon would work. I could do three o'clock."

"Fine, fine. I will see you then."

"See you this afternoon."

Martin took a deep breath after he rang off. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this. And if nothing else, Odd would no doubt know just the place Martin should take Hope for dinner on Friday.

X X X X X

Martin sat, tensely, on the chair facing his friend, the psychiatrist. They had been talking for over an hour, with Odd skillfully guiding Martin through a description of The Incident and its aftermath. On the one hand, it was something of a relief to Martin to entrust his problem to someone else, a professional. Sort of like calling a plumber when your sink is overflowing. On the other hand, re-telling it had filled him despair and self-loathing once again, and part of him really hated Odd for leading him back to the abyss.

"So what's the verdict?" he asked. "Have I completely lost my mind?"

"No, nothing like that," replied Odd. "It sounds more to me like you've been experiencing some minor panic attacks."

"Panic attacks?" Martin repeated it, quizzically.

"Yes. Not at all uncommon. And yours sound fairly short-lived. While I am sure it doesn't feel like it to you, they fall on the mild end of the scale of symptoms. You don't seem to have psychotic episodes, you are able to function completely normally after the attacks are over, and there is no memory loss associated with them."

"Minor panic attacks, then?" Martin asked, and Odd nodded.

"What do you think is causing them?" Martin asked.

"Well I can't be entirely sure yet, but I think we're going to find that the root cause and the trigger events might be different. We'll need to do some more work to get to the bottom of this all, but I'm expecting to find that a significant contributing factor, if not the primary cause, is the high pressure work environment you put yourself in and the lack of balance in your life."

Martin snorted.

"Of course that is only my current hypothesis. We may find a wholly different cause as we work through this."

"I see. Are there treatment options?"

"Yes. I'll want to see you at least once a week to start. There are a number of other things we can try. I'll be giving you a sick note for eight weeks and a prescription for sleeping tablets. I am also ordering you to have some fun – whatever will lift your spirits. And I want a full report when you come back next time." He gave Martin a hard look, knowing Martin well enough that he needed to add, "And if you can't manage on your own, I will turn you over to my sisters and have them fill up your social calendar."

Martin groaned at that prospect, and then they both laughed, both remembering how Odd had nudged Martin towards his younger sister, Pamela, about ten years earlier. It had been an unmitigated disaster. He had brought her figs instead of flowers, she had drunk too much champagne, he'd lectured her on the evils of breast implants, and she'd demonstrated without a shadow of a doubt to all of the guests at Odd's party just how little she needed them. He'd called her annoying. She'd found him rude. Neither one had forgiven Odd for laughing at them.

"Actually, I have plans to take a friend, a woman, out to dinner on Friday. I wondered whether you had a suggestion for a restaurant – someplace special. I owe her a nice evening."

Odd raised his eyebrows. This was an interesting development. Martin had what sounded like a date. He hoped she was a hardy soul.

"Well what is she like, this friend of yours? Is she a sultry vixen, looking for a place full of mysterious dark corners? A party girl who wants dance music and umbrella drinks? An earnest lass who knits her own jumpers and only eats organic vegetables?"

Martin blanched at the thought. "None of those. Another doctor. You might remember her, actually. Hope Fairfax? She came up to St. Mary's from Oxford while we were there. She's, well, she's . . ." he fumbled for words.

Odd was listening carefully, not so much to what Martin was saying but how he was saying it. He tried to picture Hope but couldn't remember her. And Martin didn't really have a type. Odd had witnessed the train wreck that had been Martin's only long term relationship – the four years he had spent with that witch, Edith Montgomery. And he'd seen Martin with a few women over the years. No one serious. No one that had turned his friend speechless.

"She's just perfect," Martin finally said, unable to put his feelings into more specific words.

Odd got the message. He took another slip from his prescription pad.

"Take her to Ciel. When you call to book the table, tell them you are a friend of Tonio's. It's a hard table to book, but the maitre d' is an opera lover and he'll get you in for Tonio's sake. Have the sole and the raspberry soufflé. Enjoy yourself. Consider it medical advice."

Martin nodded and put the slip in his pocket. Minor panic attacks, he thought to himself. That didn't sound so bad. He felt lighter already, having that little word "minor" applied to his problem. He was nearly smiling when he got to his car and pulled out his mobile to ring the restaurant. Things were looking up.

X X X X X

Hope was painting her nails when her mobile rang on Friday morning. "Blast," she said before using her elbow to activate the speaker.

"Hullo Rosie. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"My, don't we sound grumpy this morning. And I am working. Well sort of. I am in a taxi on my way to a meeting with a vendor."

"You'd be grumpy too if you had been at Susan Millington's hen party last night."

"A bit hung, are we?"

"Just a bit."

"Anything good happen?"

"Not much. Lots of drinking. We made loads of blokes in a couple of clubs pay a pound to charity to kiss her cheek. She wore a tiara and a big L on her jumper. We all got little gift bags that say 'naughty girl' on them and have who knows what inside."

"Oooh. Can I have it if you don't want it?"

"What? Oh sure. Damn." Hope rubbed furiously at a smudged nail.

"What are you doing over there? Playing handball?"

"Painting my nails. Or re-painting them, actually."

"May I ask why?" Rose was intrigued.

"Well we started off at a salon last night. And with twelve of us and a lot of champagne, Vampire Vamp varnish seemed like a wonderful idea. But I woke up this morning and decided my hands look like talons on an owl that just finished decapitating a rabbit."

"That's a lovely thought. So let me guess, you're replacing blood red with your usual shell pink. You are so predictable. Just like if I ask you what you had for breakfast you'll tell me porridge and if I ask what you are doing tonight, you'll tell me yoga and knitting and an old film on DVD. Am I right?"

"Well this time you are wrong."

"About what? The nail varnish? Oooh. Maybe you splurged and went for "Cool Coral' or 'Perfectly Platinum'. Such a big change."

"No, it is shell pink. But I'm not doing yoga tonight. I have a date." Hope tried to sound casual about this but it was a big deal, at least for her.

"No! Really? Spill it, now! You can't keep this a secret! Not from me. Who is it? A fix up?"

"No, someone I met on my own. From work. Another doctor, actually."

"Hope, I'm so proud of you! So what's he like? What's he called? How'd you meet?"

"He's called Martin. He's a surgeon. I've actually known him a little for ages – we overlapped a year or two at St. Mary's."

"So is it all hot and heavy romance in the operating theater? Just like on telly?"

Hope laughed. "Not a bit – not like you can actually tell much in the theatre with everyone in scrubs and masks. No, we ran into each other outside the hospital and well it sort of developed from there."

"Developed? Hmm. That sounds interesting. So this isn't the first date?"

"I don't know how you count things. We've had, er, a cup of tea a couple times. And we went to a museum together. And he had dinner over here once."

"Better and better! So where's he taking you?"

"Some French place. Ciel, I think it's called. Ever heard of it? Then a concert after."

"Ciel. CIEL? YOU are going to Ciel? No one can get a table there. You have to know someone. I would KILL to go there. He must be some hotshot."

"I dunno. All he told me was that a friend of his told him the food there was, what was his word, um, 'acceptable' I think he said."

"My God. So what are you going to wear?"

"Well I hadn't decided. I was deciding between a challis print shirtdress like Granny's and jeans and a football jersey. What do you think?" Hope was laughing.

"Hmm. He must be a load of fun!" Rose was giggling too. Then she sobered a bit. "Actually, I think this calls for THE dress."

"You can't mean that. That's for, I dunno, like a society wedding or going to the opera or something. This is just a dinner date. Probably my black dress would do fine."

"No! That has long sleeves and a boat neck. It has as much shape as a paper sack, even if it is cashmere. No you need to wear THE dress. The whole shebang – the bag, the shoes, those long earrings."

"You think so?"

"Absolutely. Try it on when your nails dry. You know I'm right."

"I'll think about it."

"Okay. Well ring me in the morning, tell me how it went. And don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

"Tell me this, Rose Emily, IS there anything you wouldn't do? Wait, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know."

Rose just laughed and hung up the phone.

"What have I got myself into?" Hope thought to herself as she gently blew on her nails.


	14. Blood Pudding

**Author's Note: **Thanks to all who have been reading and especially to those who have been so kind to review. Your critiques and encouragement mean the world to me. No medical jargon this time, but a satsuma is a tiny Japanese orange, kind of like a mandarin.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 14 – Blood Pudding**

Hope looked at herself in the mirror as she arranged her hair that evening, and decided Rose had been right – this was the night for THE dress. The garment in question had been purchased in Paris the previous summer. Buoyed by a fat fee for a lengthy trial over a breach of contract case, Grace had treated her sisters to a long weekend in Paris to celebrate her 40th birthday. They'd had a super time and had egged each other on in a hunt through the shops to find each of them one perfect dream of a dress.

Hope's dress was silk chiffon the color of honey. It was gathered at each shoulder and dropped in pleats to a daring vee both back and front. It had a very fitted wide band around her middle, and then flared into soft folds over her hips to end just above her knees. It showed off her lovely figure to perfection, and left her arms and much of her shoulders and her upper back bare. The warm colour suited her skin tones perfectly, and brought out the honey-toned highlights in her hair and her eyes. She had found delicate high-heeled sandals of burnished gold leather and a matching clutch bag in a different Parisian boutique, and then added chandelier earrings of crystals strung on fine gold wire at a street stall in Montmartre.

The whole ensemble had cost at least two week's pay, and she'd protested to her sisters that she would never have anywhere to wear it. She'd eventually given in when each of them had similarly splurged, and tonight she was grateful. Grace had been right – every woman needs a dress in which she feels absolutely confident of her own beauty. This is the dress that did that for Hope. And she looked exquisite.

After some debate and a phone call to Rose, she had pulled the front part of her hair back in some clips, leaving the back a cascade of curls over her shoulders. There were some curling tendrils around her face to soften it but not hide the glittering earrings. The effect of the hairstyle, the jewelry and the neckline was to highlight her long, elegant neck and her décolletage in a very becoming manner. She'd added some smoky eye-shadow and rosy lipstick and light dusting of apricot-tinted powder. The overall look was soft and romantic and very beautiful.

As she waited for Martin to arrive, she glanced around her bedroom to make sure it was tidy. She always did that, but somehow there was an extra frission of excitement as she did it this time, allowing herself just a moment to fantasize that she might not be coming back alone. Stop being silly, she told herself, sternly. He seems to be taking things very slowly. And besides, he's already seen it in here anyway.

She went downstairs tucking her mobile, her lipstick and other necessities, including her travel toothbrush, into the clutch. She looked again in the mirror to make sure she didn't have lipstick on her teeth or hair caught in her zip. She hoped Martin wouldn't have any trouble with Friday night traffic.

Martin pulled up right on time and rang her bell, fingering his tie just a bit nervously and holding a paper sack. As the blue door opened and he saw her standing there, his mouth literally went dry. He was simply stunned.

Hope stepped back into the room, drawing him in and said, "Good evening, Martin."

"Er, good evening." He couldn't take his eyes off her. She noticed his stares and blushed becomingly, feeling a bit more powerful knowing she was having this effect on him.

He handed her the paper bag. "These are for you – satsumas."

"Thank you," she said, "no one has ever brought me satsumas before."

He wanted to say that they were small and sweet and reminded him of her, but he couldn't form the words. He resorted to medical-speak and said, "I thought the vitamin C would be good for your immune system, since flu season is starting."

She was touched that he had thought of her well-being instead of just trying to impress her with orchids or something, but a nagging feeling that he was instead thinking about her cancer crossed her mind. She frowned for just a second, and then crossed to the table to add them to the fruit bowl. They did make a lovely visual addition to the golden bananas and crisp green apples already there.

"Shall we go, then?" she said brightly, walking back to him. "My sister tells me this restaurant is really someplace special and I am looking forward to it."

Watching Hope move in that dress was even more distracting to Martin. Nothing he'd seen of her up to now had prepared him for how she looked tonight, for the tantalizing view of the silk whispering over her hips and her legs and her bottom. He felt he was going to embarrass himself. He wanted to tell her how wonderful she looked but he was tongue-tied. "You look . . . you look. . ." he began, then added, lamely, "you look like you might need a coat. It's a bit chilly out."

She nodded and took a cream wool car coat from the coat tree in the corner. He helped her into it, grateful both for something constructive to do and for the chance to be close to her. As he stood behind her, holding the coat, he smelled her hair and the floral notes he had come to recognize as her shampoo. Tonight there was a musky overtone. "Are you wearing perfume?" he asked.

She nodded, as she turned around, the coat now properly buttoned. "Sandalwood. Do you like it?"

"I do."

X X X X X

Ciel was all that had been promised and more. Hope overlooked Martin's gruffness, some might have called it rudeness, with the car parker and the wine waiter, thinking he might be as nervous as she was in this environment. She was fascinated hearing him talk opera with the maitre d', not knowing that this had been the key to securing the coveted table. She filed away for future reference his preference for La Boehme over Madame Butterfly.

They both took Odd's advice and ordered the sole. The waiter only sneered a little when they asked for the Véronique sauce on the side. While they waited, they chatted amiably. He told her a bit about his work on his clock and the article he'd been reading in Lancet about heart valve replacements. She filled him in selectively on some hospital gossip. Since he knew Susan Millington, a cardiology consultant at St. Thomas's with whom Hope had shared a flat in their student days, she gave him the edited highlights of the hen party. This made him roll his eyes and think again how strange women's rituals were.

Hope indulged in the raspberry soufflé while Martin preferred the cheese course. While they sipped their coffee, she asked him about the concert he had planned for later. She was surprised when he told her they'd be hearing a Spanish flamenco guitarist at a well-known West End night club. That sounded so romantic. She was too shy to say so, so she instead asked him if he'd ever played a musical instrument. When he told her he hadn't, she regaled him with the story of her own days as an indifferent piano student and how she'd muddled up the pages of her sheet music and disgraced herself at her recital at the age of 10. He smiled with her.

Although they felt a bit self-conscious, out of their usual comfort zones, to the staff and the other diners they appeared to be just another elegant couple out on the town – the tall blond man in his well-tailored suit and the petite beauty in her Parisian finery. The waiter had noted the absence of wedding rings and their longing looks with his practiced eye and figured this must be a third or fourth date. He smiled to himself, wondering what the rest of the evening would hold for them.

As he helped her into her coat after dinner, Martin felt bold enough to let his arm slip around her waist and pull her just a bit closer. It stayed around her as they exited and waited for the car. His hand slid to the small of her back as he guided her to the passenger door and helped her in. He felt more confident now that he had navigated the tony restaurant and he marveled again at how lucky he was to be spending this remarkable evening with Hope.

The club was dark and intimate. They were seated on a banquette, side by side, with a tiny table before them and on it a flickering candle in a glass holder. A cocktail waitress brought Hope a glass of brandy and Martin a glass of water. As the lights went down and the music began, Martin saw Hope take her hand off her glass and put it down on the banquette between them. Ever so slowly he moved his hand to cover it. She looked up and smiled as he did, reassuring him that she was happy with this turn of events. He squeezed her hand and settled in to enjoy the music.

There was short interval and Hope excused herself for the loo. While she was there, she cleaned her teeth in the tiny sink to get rid of the taste of the brandy. She had kind of a thing about clean teeth and fresh breath, especially if she thought she might get a kiss. When she came back, she made sure to slide just a little bit closer to Martin, her shoulder bumping his. She hoped he would get the message and wrap his arm around her. Her telepathy seemed to be working as he gave her a long look, then placed his arm carefully across her back. She shivered as he touched her bare shoulder and that provided the excuse for him to pull her even closer so she was cuddled up against him. She bent her head to his shoulder, and rested it there contentedly.

Martin scarcely noticed the music in the second half. He clapped politely at the indicated moments, but his mind was on the feel of Hope - the silkiness of her skin under his hand, the way her hair tickled against the side of his face, the soft curve of her breast against his chest where their bodies met. He had seen her hundreds of times in scrubs and never imagined what might be underneath. Now it was hard to not undress her in his mind.

X X X X X

"Here we are, then," Martin said as he pulled the car up in front of Hope's house.

Hope watched him carefully, wondering what would come next. He turned off the engine and that raised her spirits.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Martin. It was all very special. I enjoyed myself very much."

"Thank you for coming. You are good company." He cringed a bit as he said that. This was not what you said to the most charming woman you'd known in a long time. He was really having a hard time making his brain work.

She looked up at him and sensed his uncertainty. She wasn't sure what he was uncertain about – her or what to say to her.

"Would you like to come in – we could have a coffee or a glass of whiskey or something?"

He looked at her, grateful at the invitation, wondering exactly what 'or something' entailed. He wasn't sure. Perhaps if he probed a bit he could sense what she had in mind.

"Well it's a bit late for coffee, and after last week I am not sure I'll be having any whiskey for a long while." He let this hang in the air, willing her to clarify the invitation.

She was crestfallen at what she perceived as outright rejection. She had been so sure he had been interested, so sure he would want to hold her again, to kiss her as he had on Sunday, maybe even to take things to the next level. How more obvious could she have been in extending the invitation for a nightcap? The air was out of the balloon now. The confidence she had felt in her new dress was gone.

Another, more sinister, thought crossed her mind. He had held her and kissed her on Sunday after hearing the story of her cancer, the loss of her dreams. It was pity. She was sure of it now. He found her pathetic. This had been a mercy date. That's why he had brought her the fruit instead of flowers or a more personal gift– he was simply concerned about her health.

Martin was unaware of what was racing through Hope's mind. He reached to take her hand across the console and was surprised when she snatched it back. He was bewildered. She had seemed pleased for him to hold her hand, to put his arm around her in the nightclub. What had he done? He thought again about how little he understood women.

"Martin," she began, trying to hold back both tears and outrage, "I don't need or want your pity. If the only reason you took me out was because you felt sorry for me, because of the cancer thing, then I want you to go away and leave me alone."

"What are you talking about?" He was truly confused.

She looked at him. Was it possible she had misread this? She'd thought she'd better try again. She took his hand and looked straight at him to make sure there was no doubt about what she was saying.

"Martin, I'm sorry if I misunderstood you. I just want to make this clear. I like you very much. I thought you were beginning to like me too. I think it would be nice if you came in, but only if you want to. Only if you want to be with me, not because you feel sorry for me or because you feel grateful to me or for any reason other than you want to be with me."

He looked at her, speechless. He unhooked his seatbelt and opened his door.

This is it, she thought. He's going to walk me to the door and say goodbye and that will be it. She wondered if Rosie were home – she might need some moral support in her disappointment.

He came around to her side of the car and opened the door. He extended his hand to help her out. When she stood up, he closed the door behind her. She heard the little chirp as he locked the car. Side by side they walked to her door, not touching or looking at one another. She fumbled in her bag for the keys.

As she did, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him. He took one hand and tipped her face up to him.

"Hope, pity is the very last thing on my mind. I'm not any good at small talk or discussing feelings or even at dating. The only thing on my mind tonight has been being with you. It's been the main thing on my mind all week. I don't know how I gave you any other impression."

Hope smiled widely as she looked up at him and swallowed the lump in her throat. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss that held volumes of promise. After what seemed like an age, she pulled away long enough to unlock the door and draw him inside. He followed, eagerly, thinking 'or something' might be very nice indeed.


	15. Hot Blooded

**Losing It**

**Chapter 15 – Hot Blooded**

As Hope had closed the door behind them, she let go of Martin's hand so she could remove her coat. She shrugged it off into his waiting hands, and as she did she heard his sharp intake of breath. She felt just a bit giddy knowing she was having this effect on him. It also occurred to her that he hadn't once actually, verbally, complimented her tonight. It was time to remedy that.

"Martin, luv, don't you like my dress? You never said." She twirled in front of him coyly as she said this.

"Er, it's nice, very nice." He took her hand to stop her twirling.

"Nice? That's the best you can do, nice? I'll have you know I went to Paris and spent the earth on this dress. I thought it was better than nice."

If she hadn't been smiling, he would have thought he'd really stepped in it this time. He gave her a long look, up and down, taking in the view from the tip of her toes to the top of her head.

"Look, Hope. You are a beautiful woman. Absolutely beautiful. The dress may, er, highlight that beauty. But the fact is that it is nothing compared to you."

She beamed and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him soundly, and then whispered into his neck, "Martin, luv, thank you. That was a hundred times better than having you gush about my dress."

He gathered her in his arms and kissed her again. The skin on her shoulders and her back felt satiny smooth under his hands. He deepened the kiss and she responded in kind. As his arms slipped from her shoulders to her waist, he lifted her up so they were face to face and he looked into her eyes. He could be a happy man if he never saw anything else but the warmth of her eyes.

"So strong," she murmured, nuzzling his neck. "I love how strong you are. I feel like I am floating on air when you do that."

His lips traced a path from her mouth to her long, slender neck. He had been aching to do that since he'd arrived that evening. Her hair brushed his face lightly as he did and it reminded him again how much he liked her hair long.

She eventually loosened her grip around his neck and slid so her feet were back on the floor. Taking his hand, she drew him to the sofa. "Maybe we'd be more comfortable here."

Sitting on the sofa, the height difference was not so pronounced. In each other's arms, they kissed with passion that had been quietly simmering for days, weeks, maybe longer. Martin cupped Hope's face in his hands and lightly traced the line of her jaw and the curve of her neck, down to the neckline of her dress. It was tender and exquisitely gentle.

"You touch me like I'm made of glass," she noted.

"You look so delicate and fragile. I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm not going to break. I'm flesh and blood. I'm strong and I won't let you hurt me."

With that he pulled her more firmly to him, dragging her sideways onto his lap and pressing her to his chest. She felt so perfect there, her head tucked up against his shoulder, her arms around his neck. He bent his head to kiss her insistently, while his hand moved under her hair to caress the part of her back her dress left bare.

She shifted so she was facing him, one knee on either side of his. As she did so, his hands wandered lower to cup her bottom and keep her from sliding to the floor. He'd noticed before that her legs were bare. As his hands roamed over the fabric covering her bum, his eyes grew wide. He'd expected to feel the outline of her knickers but there was none. He was so surprised he stopped kissing her altogether.

She noticed his mouth had stopped and looked up at him. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Aren't you wearing anything under this?" He could hardly choke it out.

She laughed. "It's called a thong. Meant to avoid unsightly lines showing through my skirt." When he looked unconvinced, she took his hand and guided it over her skirt to the place on her hip where the waistband was. "See – it's just here."

He resumed kissing her, but was unsure where to put his hands, finally settling them on her waist. A voice inside him was telling him to be thrilled. Another voice was telling him it was time to stop and go home.

He took her hands in his. "Such tiny hands," he said. "But so warm."

"Your hands are beautiful, Martin. I noticed them, even before, well before I noticed the rest of you. When you operate, they are so skilled and sure and they do such amazing things. And when you touch me with them, they are so strong but so gentle. I melt every time. I just melt."

He knew if he kept listening to her voice say things like that and having her silk clad body so close to him, there would be no turning back. This was his last chance to be a gentleman.

"Hope, I think I'd better go."

She stopped short. She had imagined a lot of possibilities for tonight but this was not one of them. "Go? You think you'd better go?" Her voice echoed his without really comprehending.

"Yes, I'd better. It's been a really good evening. Thank you so much." He is pushing her away, straightening his tie.

She looks hurt and just a little forlorn. She sees that he is struggling for some control over the obvious physical response his body is having to hers. "Martin, tell me what you're thinking? Why do you have to go? Or is it just that you think you ought to offer?"

"Hope, if I don't go now, I am not sure I'll be able to go later. And you don't deserve that. I respect you. You don't have to, you know, let me stay just because I took you out. I don't want you to feel obligated. I'm not that kind of a man."

"Martin, if I thought there was any chance of you being the kind of man who'd take advantage like that of a woman, there is no way you'd be in this house. None. But I know that's not how you are. Besides, if you were going to take advantage, you would have done it last week when you woke up and found me in bed with you. You were a perfect gentleman – you didn't even try to kiss me. Trust me, nothing I'm doing now has anything to do with feeling obligated to put out, if you want to be crude about it, because you bought me dinner."

"Oh, Hope. Believe me; it took every ounce of control I had to leave that morning. It wasn't easy to do. And it wouldn't be easy to do now. But I want you to be sure."

"Martin, I've never been surer of anything in my life. Please don't go."

There was a look of relief on his face she would always remember. She took his face in her hands and kissed him seductively, willing him to return the kiss, willing him to put his arms around her again, willing him to stay. He did not disappoint.

She ran her hands up his arms, over his suit coat, feeling the sleeve of the coat and the sleeve of his shirt and at his shoulder the sleeve of his vest underneath that. She kissed his neck along his collar. She felt at a distinct disadvantage with him wearing so many more clothes that she was.

She made her decision. She pulled away and got up from the sofa. She looked straight into his deep blue eyes. "Martin, I'm going to go upstairs. You know the way – come up in ten minutes time."

He swallowed and then nodded. He looked like he had something to say.

"Did you want something? Need something?"

He nodded again. "Please, Hope. Leave your hair down. And if it's alright with you, I'd like to be the one to take that dress off."

She nodded shyly in response and then turned and went up the stairs.

He watched her go with desire in his eyes. He couldn't believe this was really happening. He was so bad at this kind of thing that he usually didn't even try. But she was making it work, making it easier for him. It endeared her to him even more, if that was possible.

He decided to get some of the awkward bits of getting undressed done now, before he joined her. He took his coat off, and his tie. He put his cufflinks in the jacket pocket and rolled his sleeves up just a bit. He took off his shoes and socks – the socks were always tricky to do without looking the fool. He paced, hearing her light footsteps and the intermittent sound of running water upstairs and imagining what she was doing, how she looked. When his watch showed that twelve full minutes had passed, he started slowly up the stairs.

The door to the lavatory was closed but the door to her bedroom was open. She'd set some tiny candles in little glass jars on the bureau and the bedside table, and left only one small lamp on. The bed was turned down invitingly on both sides. The room smelled of soothing lavender. He wasn't sure what to do so he just stood there, awkwardly, looking at the door.

She didn't keep him waiting long. She entered the room a bit shyly. The shoes were gone and the jewelry. The clips were out of her hair, which lay becomingly around her shoulders. He could smell the toothpaste and the scent of her perfume. She'd washed her face; the makeup wasn't now. Her eyes sparkled with delight, her lips were full and rosy from kissing, and her cheeks were flushed with desire.

"Hope." His voice was husky with desire. He crossed the room to her and took her in his arms. He thought to himself, "She belongs here."

After long moments of kissing, she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off so he was left in his vest and his trousers. She slid her hands under his vest and tugged it over his head. At last she was able to touch his warm skin on his broad and muscular shoulders. She sighed as she pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the scent that was him, feeling the silky hairs and hearing his heart beat.

His hand moved to her zipper but his eyes asked her permission. She nodded and he slid the zipper down. Slowly, almost reverently he pushed the dress off her shoulders and to the ground, until she stood there before him in just a white lace thong. He was entranced. Carefully, he hooked his thumbs under the sides and slid this last piece of covering down over her legs, so he could see her in all her glory.

After looking at her, trying to memorize her, the way she looked at just that moment, he let her remove the rest of his clothes. Quietly, he asked her if she wanted him to use a condom. He knew he didn't have a communicable disease, but it wouldn't be right to expect her to trust him on that one.

Hope was touched at his question – no one had ever asked her that before, and for the first time she felt like she was normal. Like someone was thinking of making love with her and not thinking about her cancer and the bits of her that were no longer there. She found an impressive assortment in the naughty girl gift bag from the hen party. This saved Martin from having to admit that he'd stopped at the chemist to buy them, mainly out of wishful thinking.

X X X X X

It wasn't love, not exactly, that drew them together into the bed that night. There was attraction and desire and longing. There was also mutual respect and genuine affection. There was loneliness and heartache and distress. There was gratitude and compassion and empathy. There was the age-old instinct to give and receive comfort and pleasure and satisfaction. There was also joy.


	16. Bloodcurdling

**Losing It**

**Chapter 16 – Bloodcurdling**

Saturday morning, Hope and Martin had no idea of the drama that was playing out in Hope's front room. Or at least on Hope's mobile. It was still in her bag, abandoned by the front door, switched to vibrate before the concert started. Rose and then Grace had been calling, texting, and sending e-mail with ever increasing urgency since 8:00, jonesing for news about Hope's date with Martin. Unaware of this, the couple slept on, spooned together, content and comfortable. When the doorbell rang at 10:15, they were caught completely off guard.

"Mmpfh." Martin mumbled something unintelligible into Hope's neck, and then pulled her naked body closer to his under the covers.

The doorbell rang again as Hope, in her befuddled state, reached her arm out to hit the alarm clock, which was not ringing in the first place, forgetting for just an instant that she was not alone. Her hand connected firmly with Martin's shoulder instead of the alarm clock.

Now he stirred, just a little. "Hope? What's going on?"

Before she could answer, the doorbell rang a third time, and there was the sound of pounding on the door.

"What time is it?" she asked, looking around blindly.

"I dunno. I left my watch in my jacket pocket, downstairs."

Reluctantly, she sat up, pulling the sheet with her, and reached over him to look at the clock. "10:15? For God's sake, nobody should be here at 10:15!"

Just then there was the sound of small pebbles being thrown at her bedroom window and voices calling up from below. "Hope? Hope, we know you're in there. The kitchen light is on. Hope?" called the first voice.

"Hope? Let us in! We've brought coffee."

"Damn!" Hope swore. "Damn those two."

"Who is that?" Martin asked, still not entirely awake.

"My bloody sisters, is who. Bloody Hell."

Now the telephone on the bedside table rang. Hope snatched up the receiver. "Hello?"

Martin watched her with a little smile of bemusement, wondering what was going on. As an only child, sibling relationships were foreign to him and often amusing.

"Good mor-ning," came the sing-song reply from an all too familiar voice.

"Rose, what do you think you're doing out there? You're going to wake the neighbors."

"See, you ARE there. I told Grace you would be. She thought you might be at yoga or something and that was why you weren't answering your phone."

"Go away. Now."

"Aw, Hope. Don't do that to us. We're DYING to know how your date was. Don't keep us out here in the cold."

"Bugger off, you fools. I'll call you later."

"Oh, what do we have here? A cranky Hope? Not hung over again, are you? That would be a record – Hope hung over twice in one week. I'll call the papers."

"No, I'm not hung over. Now quit yelling – I'm quite capable of hearing you over the telephone; you don't need to shout so I can hear you through the window too. Jesus - the whole neighborhood can hear what you're saying. And go away. I'm sleeping."

"Oh, up late, were you? Were you being a good little Hope-y girl? Not too good I hope – I want all the gory details."

"I give up. GO AWAY. NOW. I am hanging up. I will call you later." She hung up the phone. Immediately the doorbell started ringing again, like someone was leaning on the button.

"SOD ALL!" she yelled. She launched herself out of the bed and pulled on the first piece of clothing that came to hand. It was Martin's vest and on her it looked kind of like a sleep shirt. She looked at him, lying back in bed and smiling at her and shook her head. "Don't go anywhere. I'll get rid of them." She hustled down to the front door, and opened it a crack.

"What part of GO AWAY do you two loons not understand? Bugger off and leave me alone. I need to sleep – I have to work tonight and tomorrow night."

"No way. We need a full de-briefing." Grace was the calmer of the two but more tenacious than all of them. She seemed ready to push open the door and let herself in.

"Give it a rest already. You are not coming in." Hope's frustrated voice was beginning to sound a little panicked.

Suddenly the penny dropped and Grace stopped trying to push her way in. "My God. He's still here, isn't he?" She looked sharply at her younger sister.

Hope's blush gave her away. Even as she shook her head, she knew she'd been found out.

"God. Is that his car?" Rose squealed, just noticing the Jag parked in front. "Oh my God. That's his, isn't it?" She had put two and two together and realized what Hope was wearing.

"Will you two just make yourselves scarce now? I promise I'll call you later. "

Their eyes were full of questions but Grace gave Rose a look that said "give it a rest already."

"And I'll take those," Hope said, snatching the moulded pasteboard tray that held two cups of coffee and an orange juice. "Consider it your punishment for waking us up."

As she watched them walk away, she realized she had referred to Martin and herself as 'us.' Now that was quite a lovely thought.

X X X X X

"So how was your dinner?" Odd asked Martin when they met again on Monday afternoon.

"Dinner?"

"You know, your date. Did you take her to Ciel?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, I did."

"And?"

"And what?"

"How was it?"

"It was fine. The maitre d' is certainly taken with Tonio. I told him I preferred his Rudolfo over his Pinkerton."

"What about your friend? You said her name was Hope?"

"Oh. I don't think she's heard Tonio sing."

"Not opera, you fool, the evening. Did you have a nice time with Hope? Did she enjoy the restaurant? What else did you do?"

"Yes. She said she enjoyed it. We went to hear a guitarist at Andalusia in the West End after."

"That it?" Odd could see Martin was getting uncomfortable and the tips of his ears were beginning to turn pink.

"No, that was it. I took her home after that."

"I see. How did it make you feel? Were you happy? Did you have any sense of panic coming on?"

"No, no panic. It was pleasant. Very nice."

"I see. Are you going to see her again?"

"Yes, we made plans to meet up tomorrow."

Odd could tell there was more to the story. He was confident it would come out eventually. As long as it was a positive experience, there was no need for him to push Martin on it, at least not yet. He was about to move on when Martin continued.

"I just don't know what she can possibly see in me. I'm a pathetic mess right now. She's a beautiful, talented woman. A doctor – tops in her field. And so bloody sweet. And then, when we were in the car, she looks like she's going to cry. And when I ask why, it's because somehow she got the idea I had asked her to dinner because I was sorry for her. "

"Do you feel sorry for her?"

"That's not the point. It seems to me that she's the one feeling sorry for me."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because I can't bloody work, that's why. Bugger. I mean that's what it all boils down to. I need to figure out why I keep panicking and how to make it stop. So I can work again. So I can be myself. I'm going mad at home. I've been watching damned cookery programmes on telly and some Australian tennis matches. There are only so many hours I can spend mending the clock or shining my shoes or de-bugging my computer. Work is my life. I need to work - I literally don't know what else to do. And I can't imagine how I can be what Hope deserves if I can't work. Please, Odd. You've got to help me."

"It sounds to me like you are feeling sorry for yourself. Are you sure you're not projecting that feeling onto her? I mean, she may have many reasons for fancying you. Does she have to like you for your profession? Isn't it better if she likes you for your pretty face, your ever so charming self?"

"What's to like? Not this ugly mug. No one's ever found me charming."

"So it's all about erotomania, then, is it? She's an innocent young thing who can't help but be drawn to you because of the power of your job and your impressive credentials? Somehow that's not how I picture her."

Martin laughed a bitter laugh.

"Martin, I have to tell you. I don't know when you're going to be able to go back to performing surgery as you did before. I can't even say whether you ever will. You are having debilitating panic attacks and they seem to be related to your work. I don't think that you are afraid of blood in the conventional sense – that's not typical with haemophobia anyhow. Somehow blood or things related to blood are triggering a panic response in you. With desensitization and other techniques, we might be able to stop you having panic reactions to blood. But unless we address the real issue that is behind this, I fear that some other trigger will emerge and you will continue to be unable to function in your present work environment."

Martin looked stunned. He put his head in his hands, as if it weighed ten tons.

"Martin, you have a fine mind and a healthy body. You have a phenomenal education and a real talent for medicine. If you feel you need work to feel yourself, to feel whole, then you need to start thinking about other ways to use your talents that aren't going to produce this reaction. So that's your project for Thursday. I want you to come up with a list of other work you could do. I know for a fact you could teach anatomy – I'd have washed out of school and ended up as a tennis coach or a professional polo player or something else horrible if you hadn't pulled me though that class. Maybe you want to do research or be an administrator or work for a pharmaceutical company or even retrain in a different medical specialty. Maybe you want to teach biology to sixth formers or map the genome or do the clock-mending full time. I can't tell you what to consider. But I want you to tell me what you've come up with when you come on Thursday."

Martin's face was grey. He clearly had not contemplated this being anything other than a temporary setback. The possibility that he would not be returning to his position as a vascular surgery consultant in a few weeks or months at most had never crossed his mind, not even when he felt his worst. His heart was leaden and he felt like there was a distinct possibility he would never be happy again.

X X X X X

Martin sat alone in his flat, staring at the full bottle of single malt on the table, deciding whether to take a drink to ease the unbearable pain he was feeling over Odd's revelation or whether he had the willpower to withstand the drink and avoid the bender. He was walking to the kitchen dresser for a glass when his mobile rang.

"Ellingham."

"Hullo, Martin."

"Hope."

She thrilled at the way he said her name. It was softer and gentler than the way he said any other word. It made her feel special.

"So what are you up to? I'm just puttering around. I'm always a little at loose ends on Monday nights – after two nights at hospital and sleeping all day, I have to make myself get up for a few hours and act like I know what time it is so I can get my body ready to go back to the regular workday tomorrow."

"Oh I'm not doing anything, nothing special."

"No?"

"No. The tennis is over. And the clock is finished. And I'm sick of reading medical journals."

"Me neither. I painted my toenails and finished knitting some mittens for Rose."

"Hmm." He was thinking about the toes. It was better than thinking about the whiskey.

"Do you want to do nothing together, do you think? I mean, you're welcome to come over here and do nothing with me."

She was giving him an alternative – he didn't have to stay here by himself. He didn't have to drink the whiskey and contemplate a life without surgery. Not tonight.

"Erm. Yes. That would be good. I would like that."

"Good. Shall I make popcorn, do you think? We can watch a DVD or something?"

"I'll be right over."

He had a plan, at least for a couple of hours. She was his savior. She was his Hope.


	17. Blood Tests

**Author's Note: **Medical terms for this chapter are PAD (peripheral arterial disease), which is a circulatory disorder that affects the legs and feet. Raynaud's syndrome is a disorder that causes extremities (hands and feet and sometimes nose) to lose blood flow and turn blue and cold. Lupus is an autoimmune disorder that affects joints, skin and other body functions.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 17 – Blood Tests**

Martin was ticklish. Hope liked having her feet rubbed. He slept on his left side and she slept on her stomach. He liked seafood but was not fond of mussels. She liked flowers but gagged at the scent of lilies. He had always wanted a classic MG and she had always wanted a fitted wardrobe. At school, the bullies had called him Smarty Smellingham and her Fairly Hopeless. Her favorite holiday had been in Greece and his had been in Thailand. She liked strawberries and bubble baths and the sound of rain and hated yogurt and pigeons and the Prince of Wales. He liked holding hands, cashews and the smell of the sea and hated beer, waiting in queues and the colour orange. She loved how he looked in a blue shirt. He loved how she looked in her flannel pyjamas.

They were learning about each other, slowly, shyly, in the way that couples in a new relationship do. The fact that they had been acquainted for over a decade meant little as they very gingerly avoided discussing anything to do with surgery. They guarded and tended what was growing between them like a new seedling unfolding from the ground, in need of nurturing and protection from the outside world. There would be time enough to widen their circle later when they were more sure themselves of exactly what they had.

They fell into a routine over the course of a month or so. Hope still had a very demanding work schedule, so they spent less time together than they might have liked. Monday nights, Hope would call Martin to join her if she'd gotten her rest during the day. Thursdays he cooked dinner for her after her day at work was over. Friday nights they often went out – nothing quite as grand as Ciel, perhaps, but they might have dinner in a restaurant or a drink in a pub.

On the first Monday night in December, Martin came to Hope's around five and brought take away Thai food from a place where they were becoming regulars. They had dinner and watched Moulin Rouge on DVD. Martin secretly hated the film but enjoyed sitting on the sofa, holding Hope in his lap with her head against his chest. The trade-off was enough to keep him from whinging about the poor singing.

While they were tidying up, he mentioned casually that he had heard from Chris Parsons that Chris and Tracy were coming up to London the following weekend for some Christmas shopping and to see the Nutcracker ballet. Chris was moaning about going to the ballet but it was a special favorite of Tracy's.

Hope was delighted at the prospect of seeing Chris again and of meeting Tracy. It seemed time to make their first tentative public appearance as a couple. This would be a low-key, low impact way of doing that, since Chris and Tracy didn't move in the circles at St. Thomas's where there would be a risk of gossip about the fact that Martin and Hope were seeing each other.

A bit later, he was in her bed waiting for her to finish in the lavatory and join him. He marveled again that he was here in this physical and emotional place. Despite the complete shambles of his professional life, there was something so perfect about being with Hope. And as he thought about it, he realized that he never would have had this chance without The Incident – he would have gone on operating, he would have seen her only as a colleague. He probably would have skipped Dennis's funeral, making excuses about surgery; without the crushing pain that drove him to walk across London in the rain, he never would have known just how much he needed her. It was the first glimmer of a silver lining he had seen to this cloud hanging over him.

She bounded into bed and snuggled up to him.

"You're so toasty warm!" she exclaimed.

"Your feet are freezing. They're like ice," he protested.

"Well, maybe you can warm them up for me," she said with a smile, snuggling closer.

"I've been reading up, actually. I wonder if you have seen your doctor about the cold feet. Maybe you should be checked for Raynaud's disorder or possibly PAD."

She looked up at him, trying to see any hint of a smile that might indicate he was joking. She saw none.

"Martin! You're not being serious, are you?"

"Of course I am. I never joke about medical matters, you know that."

With that she smacked him with her pillow and collapsed, laughing.

"Martin, you goose! My feet are cold because it's December. In case you hadn't noticed, it's cold outside, and inside this draughty house too. The tile on the floor in the bath is completely freezing. It's like going for a wee in an igloo." She smacked him with the pillow again.

"Hey. That's uncalled for, I think." He pushed the pillow out of his way.

"You're good at that, though."

"What, pillow fights? Never went in much for those at school."

"No, at thinking through symptoms. You're being a goose about my feet but don't sell yourself short as a diagnostician."

"Not that it does me any good in my present condition," he moped.

"Well, keep it in mind as you think about your options. I know you've been frustrated trying to come up with that list for Odd, and I think you are so focused on your surgical skills that you forget that you did the rest of the medical course too and had your pick of specialties. You chose surgery but you didn't have to – it wasn't that you didn't have the skills or the brains for another one."

"I'll think about it."

She worried about his tone. He was very prone to brooding these days.

"Martin. One thing I have heard is very good at generating heat is friction." As she said this, she gave him a wicked look and put her talented hands to work demonstrating this principle. Pretty soon he had forgotten all about her feet.

X X X X X

Hope and Martin arrived first at the restaurant that night. They looked like a handsome, cosmopolitan couple as they were seated at a window table in the old-fashioned Italian restaurant that had been a haunt of Martin's and Chris's in their student days. They seemed perfectly in tune with one another, showing no sign of the cross impatience Martin had displayed when Hope kept him waiting when he came to retrieve her. She had been fussing about her clothes, wondering a bit nervously how she would be judged by this couple who were among Martin's oldest friends.

She was decked out in a black pencil skirt and a new wine-coloured blouse with a surplice neckline that wrapped across her chest and tied at the waist in back to show off her figure much more dramatically than she usually did. It had drawn a squeal from Rosie when she emailed a photo to her. Tall black boots finished the ensemble in a way both fashionable and practical for the wintery weather. Her hair was down around her shoulders, the way Martin seemed to prefer it. She was anxious to get this just right, both because she wanted Martin to approve and because she felt she would be scrutinized closely by Tracy if not by Chris. She had not forgotten that Martin had described Tracy as a bit scary. Martin, as usual, had done nothing to reassure her on this front. After some fishing for a compliment on her part, he had pronounced her outfit "suitable."

Chris and Tracy arrived a few moments later and Martin had a smile for them as they came across the room. His smile faded a bit as he watched Tracy limp slightly. Both Chris and Tracy embraced Martin, a fact that fascinated Hope as she had never seen him voluntarily embrace anyone; well anyone except herself.

Tracy Parsons was a no-nonsense Cornish farmer's daughter who had come up to London to train as a nurse. She was, as Martin had explained to Hope, born to be a ward sister. Chris had met her on the wards, and Martin recalled that in no time at all, his friend was smitten. She had hair the colour of caramel and bright green eyes and freckles on her nose. Now, she was twelve years older than when she'd met Chris and her figure showed a few signs of the two children she'd carried. But the adoring way she looked at Chris and her dry sense of humor were all that Martin remembered from those early days when Chris had brought her around to their digs to drink cheap Spanish wine and help her revise for her exams.

Hope felt a little self-conscious as she extended her hand to shake and was instead kissed on the cheek by Chris and embraced by Tracy. She wanted so much for them to like her, to approve of her a companion for Martin. She needn't have worried. Both of them cared for Martin very much and were extremely concerned about his state of mind during this current crisis. They would have loved Hope no matter what, if only because she seemed to be the one thing standing between Martin and desperation. But they were drawn to her at once for her own charms and warm, friendly demeanor.

As the evening progressed, Hope learned that Chris and Tracy had been married for ten years and that they had two children, Danny who was six, and Lizzie who was four. Chris commented that he had brought Tracy up to town to give her a break and a little rest, which seemed odd to Hope since a whirlwind weekend of shopping and theatre didn't sound like a rest to her. Maybe it would be different if you had two demanding small children at home in addition to a house to run and a job as a nurse in a care home for the elderly. When she commented on this, Tracy had laughed and exclaimed, "Well, a change is as good as a rest."

Hope found Chris even more interesting than she had the day they had worked together to sober Martin up and tidy the mess in his flat. Chris was funny, and he had a relaxed way about him that seemed to bring out a more relaxed version of Martin. There were clearly some in-jokes that she didn't get but she was relieved to see Martin in this context, smiling at being ribbed by an old mate about his suit, his haircut, his choice of foods, his glass of water. It all seemed so natural. Hope began to relax.

After they ordered their meal, Tracy pulled out a bottle of pain relievers and took a dose with a long drink of water. Martin expected some comment on how she had injured whichever joint, knee or ankle, that was causing the limp he'd noticed earlier. It surprised him when she said it was for bursitis in her elbow.

Over minestrone and pasta puttanesca and veal milanese, Martin and Hope told Tracy and Chris about their evening at Ciel, the Spanish guitarist, and a couple of films they had seen. Hope did most of the talking, turning to Martin to draw him into the conversation with a well-placed question or a request for his opinion or version of events. His answers were cordial, if brief, but it made him part of the discussion around the table and seemed to suit him. Hope was happy to look over and see that he was watching her, listening to her, admiring her. She reached her hand under the table to take his and give it a squeeze. She also noticed that he was giving Tracy not very subtle looks and she wondered what was on his mind.

When the ladies excused themselves for the loo, Martin and Chris had a few moments to themselves. Martin stared at Hope and Tracy as they left.

"Why do they do that?" Martin asked.

"Do what?"

"Use the lavatory in pairs. I would have thought privacy would be the objective for bodily functions."

Chris laughed. "What women do together is a complete mystery to me, but I have confidence it has nothing to do with bodily functions."

Martin looked pensive.

"What's on your mind, Mart?"

"Well, I was just wondering, I mean, you never said anything, but how is Tracy handling the lupus?"

Chris looked gobsmacked. "What on earth are you talking about? Tracy doesn't have lupus."

Martin looked thoughtful and not particularly surprised. "Well, I couldn't be sure. But she seems to be having joint pain – what with her elbow and the fact that she's limping – I saw a bit of a limp that looked like her right knee was hurting when you came in but just now it looks like it is her left ankle. And the rash on her face - it's subtle but it's the classic butterfly pattern of the lupus rash. And you said she had been very fatigued – that this trip was about giving her a rest. So it all added up to lupus for me."

"My God."

"Is she having health problems?"

"Well, yes. Yes, she has been. But I never thought of lupus. She's the right age, though. Damn."

"I see. You might want to do some tests, rule out some things. But it can be treatable. I read that the anti-malarials are reasonably good at controlling most of the symptoms."

"I just thought she was overdoing it with the kids and the job and everything."

"You may be right. I'm no expert. She should see her GP, maybe a rheumatologist."

"Well you're bloody good at reading medical symptoms for a surgeon." Chris looked crushed. "I'm the primary care doctor of the two of us – it should be me putting two and two together here."

"Get a real opinion, Chris. You can't rely on my casual observations for a final diagnosis. I'm not a qualified GP. I've just been reading medical journals for past six weeks to kill time."

"You're right. I'll have her see her doctor when we get home. But Martin, thanks for telling me what you saw. Sometimes it is really hard to truly see what is happening to someone you love, someone you see every day."

"I'm sure that's true."

"By the way, how are things going with you and Odd? Are you making any progress?" Chris was treading lightly here.

"Er, yes. He's been helpful. I am trying to adjust to the fact that it seems unlikely I will be able to return to surgery any time soon. I am supposed to be thinking about a plan B for myself, a sort of second career option. Besides ruling out fields other than medicine I have not made much headway."

"I can't blame you. It is bloody unfair what has happened here. And I know how long and hard you've worked to get to where you have in surgery. But you could always retrain. There are lots of facets of medicine that don't involve blood the way vascular surgery does."

"That may be." Martin looked morose.

"What about dermatology? Or rheumatology? Or oncology? Or did you think about neurology?"

Just then, Hope and Tracy returned to the table, letting Martin off the hook for answering Chris's question. As Tracy sat down, Hope noticed Chris looking at his wife's face intently, with an air of anxiety. Martin was looking at both Chris and Tracy with a thoughtful look, as though he were trying to figure out a difficult sum. Hope was confused, and was increasingly concerned when Chris looked at Martin and gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

Before the trip to the lavatory, Hope had been sure that the evening would go on into the night, with coffee and pudding and more conversation, maybe topped off with a drink at the Parsons' hotel. But it seemed to dissolve very abruptly. Martin called for the bill with a wave of his hand at the waiter before the sweets trolley had even been brought out, despite Tracy's earlier declaration that she was saving room for cannoli. Hope was used to the fact that Martin was somewhat fanatical about healthy eating and rarely touched sweets himself, but thought it was rather rude of him to impose his personal restrictions on Tracy.

There was much clapping of shoulders and kissing of cheeks as they donned their coats and said good bye, with promises about getting together again soon. But it all seemed strange to Hope, as though something had happened while she and Tracy were away from the table.

As he helped her into the car, she asked, "What happened tonight?"

"What do you mean? Didn't you have a good time?"

"It was lovely. But at the end, it seemed like something went terribly wrong. Was it something I said?"

Martin looked at her, and then took her hand. "Nothing to do with you."

"Well what is it? Is anything the matter with you? Don't keep me in the dark."

"No – it's about Tracy. I noticed a few symptoms and mentioned to Chris that it seemed to me she ought to be tested for lupus. I think it surprised him."

"I'm sure it did. Not very typical to get a diagnosis when you are out for dinner with an old friend."

"I hadn't thought of it in those terms but you may be right. I think he wanted to get her alone to talk with her further about the symptoms."

The ride home was quiet as Martin and Hope both contemplated what had occurred. For the first time since she had known him, Hope fervently wished that Martin was wrong.


	18. Blood Bath

**Losing It**

**Chapter 18 – Bloodbath**

One thing Hope was learning was that it would not be easy to be Martin Ellingham's girlfriend. Not in the best of times and these were not the best of times. While he had seemingly endless patience with tedious medical procedures, he had no patience at all with tedious people. He was used to having everyone in the operating theatre snap to attention and act without question on his every command, and this was his expectation for all encounters with other people. This did not translate well into dealing with everyday life or reaching a middle ground when he disagreed with her. He was opinionated and had no problem disclosing it, even insisting on it, despite what that might do to someone else's feelings. She learned early on he was not the man to ask if a certain pair of trousers made her bum look fat. This was in contrast with his seeming innate inability to reveal his feelings – he had to be asked pointed direct questions to elicit even a tongue-tied, strangled answer. He had to be brow-beaten for the smallest of compliments. He was something of a misanthrope and there seemed to be very few people he held in high esteem. She was pleased to be among the select, but it was sometimes difficult to hear him run down people she considered perfectly nice.

His current circumstances made things even more difficult. He had revealed, painfully, the gossip he had overheard at the hospital about the two of them and insisted that their relationship be kept not only discreet but hidden from the staff at the hospital. Hope went along with this, somewhat reluctantly, because while she knew they had nothing to be ashamed of, she also knew that there was rampant speculation at the hospital about what was happening to Martin. If her relationship with him became known, she'd undoubtedly be inundated with uncomfortable questions about his health, his private life, and his prognosis for return to work.

But this made things difficult for her. She had many friends at the hospital. Some of them already suspected she had a new boyfriend. They noticed she was wearing her hair differently, that she rarely went home in her scrubs anymore, that she often put on more make-up, perfume and dressier clothes than she usually did at the end of the day. They remarked that she rarely joined them for a night at the pub or a stop for breakfast after the night shift any more. She didn't know what to say. She demurred as best she could, and repeated that her sisters were both trying to fix her up, which was true as far as it went but was dishonest in a way that bothered her.

It wasn't any easier with her family. Her sisters had the basic outline – she was dating a surgeon she had met at the hospital. They were spending a lot of time together and had been discovered in bed together that Saturday morning. She had not told her parents anything, but was fairly sure that Grace would have done so by now – theirs was a close family. She had no problem with telling them. But Martin had protested when she suggested that they get together with her sisters. And she knew better than to propose a trip down to Bath to meet her parents.

He had too much time on his hands and too many worries in his head. This made him needy, which made him despise himself. He was someone who under other circumstances would have understood immediately Hope's dedication and sense of obligation to her career. But now, with no work to fill his own days, he grew resentful of the time she spent at work, especially her weekend night shifts. He clearly admired her professionally, but it was difficult for that to translate into tolerance of her schedule. And his inability to work made him susceptible to brooding.

She cared deeply for Martin. She admired his dignity and his talents and had an ocean of compassion for his difficulties. She was incredibly attracted to him and felt proud to be escorted by such a handsome and well-turned out man. She appreciated his sense of propriety and privacy. She liked his wry sense of humour. She found the fact that he was often tongue-tied around her both astonishing and endearing. He was attentive and demonstrated by his actions small and large that he cared for her and this was a heady experience for her. She experienced joy and tenderness in their lovemaking and liked nothing better than to be securely in his arms – it made her feel safe and special and sexy. She liked who she was with him. The only question was whether this was enough.

They were getting to that point – the point where "I care so much for you" either becomes "I love you" or it doesn't. The point where you either take the next step or leave things well enough alone. Christmas was two weeks away and it was going to be a minefield.

X X X X X

It was Monday morning and Hope was coming off of her second heart-breaking night in obstetrics. On Saturday night, she had worked through the night managing the epidural for a woman labouring to deliver a still-born baby. They knew from the time she arrived at the hospital that the baby was already dead. It was impossible for Hope to maintain her professional composure watching this brave and devastated woman and her partner work through the difficult labour all night long, knowing all the while there would be no happy ending. The obstetrician and the midwives and the nurses and Hope stayed with them without a break, and when the deed was done at 8 a.m., there was not a dry eye in the room. The distraught mum was sobbing as she held the waxen figure of her baby girl in her arms and Hope was sure she had never seen anything sadder.

She had dragged herself home, hours late, and put herself to bed, where dreams of the dead baby haunted her. After six hours of tossing and turning, she rose and dressed, preparing for another night in the trenches. She simply didn't have it in her to return Martin's call, so she sent him a text, "V. tired today. Ring me 2morrow. XOX, H."

Sunday night was immeasurably worse. At eleven p.m. an ambulance brought in a woman in her seventh month of pregnancy who had been gravely injured in a horrendous car wreck on the motorway. By the time Hope was called with the rest of the obstetrical team to the A&E Department to see her, the doctors there had her on a ventilator and were fairly certain she had little or no brain function left. A decision had to be made whether to deliver the baby now or to try to keep the mum alive longer to give the baby more time to develop. Eventually the scans convinced the obstetricians that they had no choice but to deliver the baby now as it appeared he might have been injured in the crash as well.

It was a surreal experience for Hope to manage anaesthesia for an already comatose patient. It took an astonishing number of medical personnel to carry out this procedure, trying to manage the mum's vitals and deliver the baby without any help from her or her nearly lifeless body. And the paediactrics team was standing by not knowing what to expect. It seemed an agonizingly long time. At four a.m., the baby was out, and the gravity of his injuries was made known. By seven both mother and son were dead.

Hope was ragged when she left. She had literally nothing left – she had drained every reserve of strength and compassion and skill. She needed restoration. She longed for someone else to take charge. To make decisions for her, to support her and to protect her from any more tragedy. She needed someone to come to her rescue and wrap her in his arms and take care of her.

She called Martin on her mobile.

"Ellingham."

"Martin, it's me."

"Hope. You sound tired. Are you home yet?"

"No. I'm still at work, but I'm done with my shift. Listen, are you busy today?"

"Not really."

"It's been an unspeakable couple of nights. Any chance you could come and get me? I need to be with you." She wasn't used to asking for help, she was used to giving it. This request took an enormous amount of courage on her part, and was a testament to how much she needed him.

Martin wasn't used to being needed or asked for help, at least not in anything but a professional context. He was even less used to giving it. He heard the tremor in her voice and he knew he was expected to do something. He really didn't have any plans and Lord knows he wanted to be with her. But he was still reluctant to be seen at the hospital.

"Martin, are you there?" She felt like she was drowning and her rescuer had stopped to admire the view.

"Yes, I'm here. I need a bit of time to get over there. Why don't you go over to the café on the corner and order some breakfast? I am sure you need to eat. I will be there in 20 minutes to pick you up."

It was a practical answer. Not the worst he could have done, by a long shot. But it wasn't the answer she had yearned for, the declaration that of course he would be there, he would rescue her, he would cherish her and chase the demons away. Still, it was something.

"Okay. I will meet you there. Thanks."

He could hear the defeat in her voice. It frightened him a bit because it was so unlike her.

"Hope? Will you be alright?"

She let out a small sigh. "Yes, I will, but please hurry."

X X X X X

She was exhausted and shell-shocked when he picked her up, and she wept all the way home in the car, without even stopping to tell him what had happened. He was discomfited by her tears and his mind raced trying to figure out what had happened to turn the poised, confident, professional woman he had left Saturday afternoon into this bedraggled, distraught and nearly incoherent waif.

"Hope, what's wrong? You're so . . . so emotional. Are you feeling unwell? Did you get some bad news?"

She shook her head, hiccupping slightly.

"Then what is it? Is it someone in your family then?"

She shook her head again and he began to worry. What on earth was going on? Being a man and a doctor, his next thought was hormones.

"Is it that time, then? Your period? Is that why you're not yourself?"

"God, no. What made you say that? I don't even have a uterus." Now she looked angry. She started crying again and he felt helpless. It had been a stupid question and he should have realized it but he was so flummoxed by the situation he had forgotten for a moment this defining characteristic of hers.

He pulled up in front of her house and went around to open her door. When she got out, he took her hand and she looked up at him, her eyes still filled with tears.

"Hope, I didn't mean to say that. I don't know why I even thought it. I can't stand seeing you like this. Please tell me what's upsetting you."

She nodded and tugged his hand toward the door. Inside, she took off her coat and her scarf and hung them up, still waiting for him to embrace her, for him to wrap his warm, strong arms around her and make her feel better.

"Did you eat anything at the café?" he asked quietly.

She nodded.

Without a word, he picked her up in his arms as if she were a small child and carried her up to her bed. Gently he peeled off the scrubs and dressed her in the flannel pyjamas that he found under her pillow. He tucked her into her bed and lay down, fully dressed, beside her.

"You need rest. Do you want to talk now, or after you've had a chance to sleep?"

"Better do it now. Get it off my chest."

"What happened, then?"

"They died, all of them," she sobbed, burying her face in his chest.

"Who died?"

"Saturday night it was the baby. The poor woman was in labour all night, all the while knowing that the baby was already dead. Then last night the mum comes in nearly dead from a bad wreck and we lost them both – the mum and the baby."

It was patients. This he could deal with. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well it doesn't sound like anything you did was the problem."

She looked at him with disbelief. "Of course it wasn't anything I did. But I was there, wasn't I? I witnessed three tragic deaths and the pain felt by those families and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't save any of them and I couldn't ease any pain or make anything better. All I could do was sit there, with my pulse-ox monitor and my stethoscope and my blood pressure cuff, and watch the whole thing unfold."

"Of course you couldn't do anything. Their conditions were caused by factors entirely outside your control and there wasn't a thing you could have done differently. Don't beat yourself up about it, Hope."

How could he expect her to be so detached? How could he be so detached himself? She couldn't understand.

"It's not about me, Martin. I'm crying for them, for their pain, and for the pain I feel because they are in pain. Can't you understand that?"

The fact was that he couldn't. Not really. When patients died in his care, his pain was always about his own responsibility – however tenuous the connection. It was about what he did or didn't do, what he could or couldn't do. Until Mrs. Clark, patients for him had been fairly abstract. And their friends and family had been even more remote – people he rarely gave a moment's notice to.

Yet here in front of him was a weeping, tear-stained woman. A woman he admired and respected and cared deeply for. HER pain mattered to him, no matter what its cause. He wanted to alleviate it, to banish it in the worst way.

"Do you want any tea?" he asked. It was a stupid question but he really had no idea how to comfort her.

She looked at him blankly. "No, no I don't want any tea." The crying had stopped but he watched her physically disappearing in front of his eyes, pulling into herself and away from him, shutting down. He was losing her and he didn't know why.

"Hope." Her name was a plea on his lips, a prayer. She looked up at him with those liquid brown eyes and he knew with all his being he wanted to take some of that pain onto himself. He put his hand on her shoulder, and when she didn't pull away, he wrapped his arms around her carefully, tucking her head onto his shoulder. She sighed, but it was a sad sigh, not a contented sigh.

He held her until she fell asleep. It wasn't enough but it was something. He sat in the chair beside her bed the whole afternoon, watching her sleep and berating himself for his inability to drive the pain away for her. When the nightmare came and she screamed, he was right there to try and soothe her. She slept again, more peacefully this time, and he felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since she had called him that morning.


	19. Blood Feuds

**Author's Note: **Thanks to all who have been reading and a special thanks to those who have been so kind as to review. Your comments are so encouraging. 

**Losing It**

**Chapter 19 – Blood Feuds**

Hope had a secret. A terrible secret. She had been carrying it for a week without knowing what to do about it and it was hanging heavily on her heart. Tomorrow she was scheduled to work in the vascular surgery unit. She had been there frequently, if not regularly, since Martin's collapse. But last week when she had received her schedule she had noticed a big change. She was rostered to work with Jamie MacNab's team. This had happened before. But the word "acting" had been dropped from Jamie's title. He officially had Martin's position now. Martin had been replaced.

Martin had been very closed-mouthed about his contacts at the hospital and she had not pried. They had very carefully avoided talking about the elephant in the room, so she had no idea whether or not he knew about this. He had been in to see Archibald one time that she knew of. But if he had been keeping up with Jamie or Rupert or Nick, or any of the others, he had kept it quiet.

Maybe he knew but wasn't sharing it. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he suspected and didn't want to confirm. What was she to do with this information? She felt cowardly and sneaky keeping it from him. On the other hand there was no reason she had be the one to tell him. Deep down she knew it would hurt him to hear and hurt him more to hear it from her. Maybe it wasn't her place to disclose it. Except that she knew. Except that she wanted nothing to come between them. Except that she was an honest person, and wanted an honest relationship with him.

She pondered this as she took her bubble bath that Monday evening. She had been a little surprised and very pleased that Martin was still there, sitting by her bedside when she awoke at 5. He had looked like nothing else but a penitent school boy waiting for the head master, sitting uncomfortably on the little chair in her bedroom with his head in his hands. She was feeling calmer and more in control of her feelings after her rest, and she couldn't help but smile at him, despite the sadness and grief that still lurked in the back of her mind. When she'd said his name, he had looked at her with such remorse that she had fallen in love with him all over again. He had embraced her fiercely then and she remembered again why she loved being in his arms. She wasn't sure now what she was forgiving him for but whatever it was she forgave easily and without regret.

He'd offered to cook something for dinner while she took her bath. She'd been tempted to tell him to forget dinner and join her in bed, but her stomach had grumbled and she still felt grimy from her long hospital shift, so she'd agreed, wondering whether he would find anything besides toast and jam in her kitchen. Now she found herself luxuriating in rose-scented bubbles and thinking about how to deal with this information she really wished she didn't have.

She dried off and cleaned her teeth and rubbed scented lotion on her damp skin. She had pinned her hair up in a loose bun for her bath, and she left it there with just a few tendrils curling around her rosy face. She wrapped herself in a navy blue silky dressing gown her sister had given her for Christmas one year. It was lovely and comfortable but she rarely wore it because it was rather short, ending well above her knees. She wanted to entice Martin to stay tonight – she didn't want to be alone - and she hoped she looked sexy enough to tempt him.

She came into the kitchen and saw Martin looking very domestic, with an apron on over his shirt and tie, hovering over the cooker. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and laid her head on his back.

"Mmm. Something smells delicious."

He turned around and gazed admiringly at her, then set his wooden spoon down and gave her a hug, nuzzling her neck. "You smell delicious, too." He suspected as he held her that she had nothing on under the dressing gown, and he gently caressed her bottom to confirm his suspicion.

"Hold that thought, will you? I'm starving."

He dropped his hand. "Er, yes. It won't be long. "

"Shall I lay the table?"

"That would be good. Shall I put the tea on?"

"Lovely." She took plates and forks and cups over to the table which he had pulled over in front of the fire he'd lit in her fireplace. Very cozy. It seemed a little like children playing house, but it was sweet and comforting. She dared not think about what it might be like to live like this on a more regular basis.

She sat down and waited while he brought over a platter of pasta and vegetables. He'd managed to make something appetizing out of dried pasta, garlic, olive oil, and the odds and ends of vegetables in her refrigerator. The last drops of a bottle of white wine, a few gratings of parmesan cheese and some basil from her window herb garden had elevated it beyond what it should have been.

"Thank you, Martin, luv. This is yummy. You must be a miracle worker – I know the cupboard was pretty bare."

He blushed, and took a bite himself and nodded. He was enjoying just watching her sit there in the flickering firelight, warm and pink from her bath and utterly alluring in her brief attire.

She felt relaxed enough to bring up the other topic that had been weighing on her mind.

"So what are you planning to do for Christmas?"

He looked startled. "No plans, really."

"I see." She paused. "Well, I'm going home to Bath as I usually do. Would you like to come with me? Mummy and Dad and the girls would love to have you join us."

He looked uncomfortable. "Ah, no. I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet." Truthfully, it wasn't a question of being ready to meet them. It was a question of not being ready to admit he wasn't a surgeon any longer. He couldn't imagine facing her father and saying he was between careers, reinventing himself. It would be humiliating.

"Well, we'll miss you. But there will be heaps of chances to meet them -when you're ready. How do you usually celebrate?" Her tone was light, not betraying her disappointment.

"Ah, well, of late I usually was on call or working so it's been pretty quiet. Someone usually organized dinner in the staff room."

"Oh, I see." She wondered what he would be doing this year, with no staff room dinner. "Do you like the hospital Christmas party? It's on Friday."

"God, no, I've never gone."

"Oh, I see. Well, I wasn't sure. I mean I always go, and it would be great if you wanted to come too. It might be fun to go together."

"No, no I couldn't." He could see immediately how her face fell. He didn't want to disappoint her and if he were still working there he might have been willing to try stopping by for her sake. But not now. Not after his humiliating collapse.

"Oh. Well I guess I didn't really expect you to want to go."

"It's just not my thing. But we could plan something festive for Friday, how would that be? Just the two of us?"

"Maybe we could get together on the later side – I could drop by the party and then we could meet up. Would that be alright?"

"Sure. What would you like to do?"

"Well, that might be the right night to have our own Christmas. I mean Friday night or Monday would be our chance."

He looked puzzled. "Our chance?"

"Well I'm leaving for Bath on Thursday after work – Grace is picking Rose and me up here. Friday is the 23rd so I'll have time to do a bit of last minute shopping and then there's the party at the brewery that night. Christmas Eve, we do a lot of cooking and decorating and things. Carol service in the evening. Sunday we'll have a big breakfast and a lazy time together having some fun and then we'll all get dressed up for dinner at Aunt Miranda's. She's Dad's sister. Monday's Boxing Day and that afternoon we'll come back. So if you and I are going to have our own, private Christmas, we'll have to do it before I go."

"I see. What did you have in mind?" His mind was racing. He was not good at holidays. Her family holiday sounded so happy and normal; he inferred that she would have high expectations for celebrating. He also hadn't thought about her being gone for so long and he was beginning to realize how much he would miss her.

"Well maybe we can meet up for a late supper after the party, and then come back here? If you're a good boy, Father Christmas might leave something in your sock here if I ask him nicely," she said, coyly. "We can make a big breakfast on Saturday like we always do at home, and enjoy it just the two of us. How does that sound?"

"Er, nice. Very nice. Um, my Auntie Joan always sends me a box of mince pies. I could bring those if you like," he added shyly.

She was touched. He obviously didn't have a lot of family holiday traditions. The fact that he wanted to share this one with her, to make it part of their private celebration, meant so much to her.

"Of course. Can't have Christmas without your Auntie's mince pies, can we?"

He nodded. He had been thinking about a gift for her. He knew it would be expected. He also knew he was rubbish at choosing gifts, particularly for women. He wondered who might give him some advice. He would still have time to shop before Friday.

She wiped her mouth and then came around the table to him. She slid into his lap, raising her face to his, straddling his chair. She took his face in her hands and kissed him tenderly. His arms went around her and returned the kiss, and then she buried her face in his chest. This was a gift. This was better than the hospital Christmas party could be, she was sure.

Slowly, he rubbed her back as he toyed with her hair and inhaled the sweet scent of her. His hands roamed her back and he tried in his caresses to convey to her how he felt, how he wanted to be with her, needed to be with her, despite his inability to participate in the social events in which she so clearly wanted to include him. He kissed her mouth, then dropped kisses along her jaw line, and then down her elegant neck. He tipped her head back and continued his kisses to the place where her dressing gown met. He heard her sigh, and he took that as an invitation to untie the sash. He could hear the fabric as it slithered to the floor and he took a sharp breath at the sight of her beautiful body in the firelight. This, he thought. This is how I want to celebrate.

X X X X X

In the morning, they overslept. Hope was frantic, throwing on clothes and plaiting her hair, running to get ready. Martin watched her from the bed, bemused.

"What are you grinning at, then? This is all your fault, you know." She smiled as she scolded him.

"My fault? How is this my fault?"

"You're too bloody distracting is how. I've never been late for work, not like this? What will they think? I'll hold up the whole damn schedule for MacNab and the entire team." She was hopping on one foot, distracted, trying to put on trousers and shoes at the same time.

"MacNab. Jamie MacNab? You're gassing for him today?" Martin sounded stunned.

"Yeah. If it's Tuesday, it must be Vascular." She dropped the shoe to get the trousers buttoned.

"But MacNab. He's still a registrar, isn't he? Who is in charge?"

Holy hell, she'd stepped in it now. He didn't know. God, how could they not have told him? She pulled her jumper over her head.

"Well he's heading a team just now." She didn't want to say more so she ducked into the loo to clean her teeth and finish pinning up her hair.

When she came back, she realized just how hard this had hit him. She sat down beside him on the bed and took his hand. "Martin, luv, I'm sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to blurt that out that way. And I truly didn't realize they hadn't told you."

"Hadn't told me what?" There was venom in his tone. She was taken aback.

"Well, that MacNab was, well, was heading a surgical team."

"So they've given him my post, have they? Given up on me? The king is dead; long live the king and all that. When? When did it happen?" He sounded so bitter; it shocked her.

She squirmed. "Well, I'm not sure, exactly. He was listed as 'acting' team leader until last week."

"Last week? LAST WEEK? When exactly were you planning to tell me? Or maybe you weren't?"

"Martin, Martin, please. We've always avoided talking about the hospital, what goes on there. I didn't think they could do this without telling you, so I figured they had. You're so quiet about these things; I figured you would tell me when you were ready. I really wasn't trying to keep it from you - I just didn't think it was for me to tell."

His face was hard and he wouldn't look at her. She was devastated at his reaction. She wished she could make this better. But she had no time now; it was 8 and she should already be at St. Thomas's. "Martin, I really have to go. If I don't catch this train I'll really be in trouble. We'll talk tonight, I promise. I'll call as soon as I get home. We can meet up if you like. We'll get through this." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tried to kiss him, but he turned his head away. She grabbed her coat from the wardrobe and picked up her rucksack. She glanced at him one more time and saw how he had pulled into his shell, not even aware she was there.

God. What a way to start the day.


	20. Blood Brothers

**Losing It**

**Chapter 20 – Blood Brothers**

Odd could tell immediately that something had changed in Martin's life just by the way he was sitting when Odd entered the room.

"Martin."

Martin looked up. The expression on his face was composed, like he felt nothing. But there was something about his eyes, like the light had gone out of them, which indicated that something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. He merely nodded at Odd and then hung his head again. Slough of Despond, no doubt about it.

Odd studied him closely as he sat down in his leather chair facing the couch on which Martin was seated. At the last appointment, Martin had seemed like he was making progress. He wondered what could possibly have changed since Friday morning.

"What's happened, then?" he asked briskly.

Martin raised his head again. "What do you mean?"

"You look like you've lost your last friend. Since I'm still here, that can't be it so I am wondering what caused this change in your demeanor."

"It's obvious, then? I was trying so hard to maintain my composure."

"Well, there are probably a few people who might have been fooled by your stoicism, but not me. Years of medical training and all that. So what is it? Don't tell me your mum's coming to town for Christmas, is she? That would be enough to put me over the edge."

Martin blanched at the thought. "No, thank God. I sent off the annual packet of English language books to fulfill my filial duties and have duly received a bottle of port and a crate of oranges in the return post. No further interaction should be necessary until next year."

Odd thought about his own doting parents and the lively family holiday he would be enjoying next week and felt truly sad for his friend with his horrid parents and his loveless relationship with them. "Well don't keep me in suspense. What is going on?"

"They've filled my post. It's official. I'm through." Martin's affect was flat but Odd could sense the pain torturing his patient. He fairly radiated agony.

"Walk me through this. What has happened? What have they told you?"

"THEY haven't told me anything. It was Hope. She let it slip. She's apparently known since last week. I can't believe she didn't tell me. She was keeping me in the dark about my own career." He sounded unbelievably bitter, and his eyes were flashing angrily.

"So you've decided to shoot the messenger, then? That it?"

"I TRUSTED her. I thought I LOVED her. How could she do this?"

Odd was struck by the fierceness of Martin's response. And by the fact that he had used the word "love." Nothing Martin had said to date about Hope, which was admittedly not very much, had let on how strong his feelings for her were. Odd wondered if his taciturn friend had told Hope he loved her. He very much doubted it.

"What exactly did she do? Is she the decision-maker here? Did SHE fill your post?"

"No, of course not. Archibald's the chief of surgery and Bell's the chief of Vascular. One of them. Or some bloody NHS bureaucrat."

"And what have Bell and Archibald and the bloody bureaucrat told you? Surely they didn't let you go and not tell you."

Martin looked uncomfortable. He looked down at his hands.

"Have you spoken to them?"

"Well, no."

"That doesn't seem fair, does it? They should have called you, written you, had you come in for a meeting or something, shouldn't they. Isn't that what you should be angry about?" Odd was ready to take on the bloody bureaucrats himself if that would erase the pain in his friend's eyes.

"Well . . . ," Martin shifted in his seat like he had something to hide.

"Well, what?"

"Well, there have been some messages on the answerphone. And a letter. Maybe more than one letter."

"I see. And did you call them back? Respond to the letters? Have you even looked at your e-mail?" Odd tried to keep the judgment out of his voice, but he could have throttled Martin at that point.

"Well, I wasn't ready to face them." Martin's tone was defensive.

"Understandable. But if they have tried to contact you and you've remained incommunicado, then can you really blame them for what they've done?"

Martin studied his hands. He did blame them, even if it was wrong, even if it sounded silly saying it out loud to Odd. He was the victim here, not them.

"Have you given anyone in a position of authority a chance to discuss with you what your situation is? What your plans are?"

"I don't know what my situation is or my plans are, alright? How can I discuss it with them if I don't know myself?" It was like a knife twisting in his gut to say this.

"What would you do in their shoes, hmm? A surgeon goes on medical leave and doesn't check back in for several months? Cuts off communications with his colleagues and his friends? Doesn't respond to telephone or mail? Do you figure he's in any shape to perform surgery? "

"But . . .," Martin sputtered.

"But what? You'd rather blame Hope? For what?"

"For not telling me what she knew."

"What does she know? And how did this come up? Have you been confiding your career woes and plans with her?"

"Of course not. We both avoid talking about the hospital as much as possible."

"I see."

"So this morning she was running late and distracted about getting dressed and she said something about holding up MacNab and his team and I called her on it. I asked her how MacNab had a team without a supervising consultant. And she told me. He'd been heading the team for a while on an interim basis and last week she learned he was no longer 'acting' team leader, he had my position." Martin had worked up a full head of steam by now and his words dripped with icy rage.

So Martin was sleeping with her, comfortable enough to be staying over and watching her get dressed. That explained a lot. Odd mused that Hope must be a patient and tolerant soul and he silently thanked her for that.

"So she said something in passing? What did she say when you asked her about it?"

"That she thought I already knew. That they wouldn't have done this without telling me. That she figured I would tell her when I was ready." Somehow, saying it aloud made him feel more wronged.

"So you're blaming her for going along with your admitted desire not to discuss this with her? Martin, does that make any sense to you?"

"I dunno. I dunno what makes sense anymore." His voice was filled with despair.

"I see. So what's the plan now? Are you going to read the letters, return the calls?"

"I guess I had better." It was a dejected and morose Martin who uttered the words.

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That I still can't perform surgery. That the haemophobia is still an issue. I nicked myself shaving last week and had to sit on the floor with my head between my knees for twenty minutes." The words sounded strangled. "Damn, Odd. It's like my life is in ruins but everyone else is still chugging along as if nothing happened."

"What did you think would happen, Martin?" Odd asked, gently. "Were the patients going to stop needing surgery because you weren't there to perform it?"

Something akin to a sob escaped from Martin's lips. Odd gave him a moment to gather himself before changing the subject.

"What are you going to do about Hope? Haven't burned your bridges there, I trust?"

Martin looked ashamed. "Might have done."

"Oh?"

"It's been a rollercoaster 36 hours on that front. She called me yesterday morning in tears. She'd had a couple bad shifts – a baby died Saturday night and a mother and baby died Sunday night. I tried to reassure her that it wasn't her fault – she was there with the anaesthesia but the cause of death on all counts was not related to her. But she was devastated. She clearly needed me to say something, to do something that I didn't. I felt like such a failure. So helpless, watching her with her heart breaking and not being able to do anything." Just thinking about it, about her face and her voice and his long vigil at her bedside, made him tremble with grief.

Ah. Odd could understand this. Martin's clinical side and Hope's empathic one wouldn't necessarily see things the same way.

"Go on."

"Well she felt better with some rest, and things seemed to be back on track. We were making Christmas plans. I told her I wasn't ready to go to Bath with her to meet her family, but we agreed to have a private celebration before she goes. And she wasn't too miffed that I didn't want to go to the hospital party. She seemed to understand I couldn't do it. Not now, not like this." He looked at his hands, as if they were the thing that had betrayed him.

"I see."

"So it all seemed set. I was looking forward to Friday, thinking about what I would buy for her gift, where to book a table for dinner. We had a good night." Martin felt his face get warm as he remembered just how good their night had been. It had been a bittersweet reminder after she left to follow the trail of his discarded clothing back downstairs, to find the remains of the dinner and the ashes from the fire. "Then this morning, she was running late. It was my fault – I usually make it a rule not to stay over when she has to work in the morning but she didn't want to be alone last night. And then she mentioned MacNab." He hung his head again.

"Martin, when Hope was upset about things that happened to her at work, how did you feel?"

"I wanted to make it go away. I couldn't bear it, seeing her in pain like that."

"How do you think she feels, seeing you in pain about what's happened with your work?"

Martin looked sharply at Odd; he hadn't thought about things from that angle.

"Do you think she was deliberately trying to deceive you? Or was she afraid to bring it up because she doesn't want to hurt you?"

Martin cleared his throat. "I hadn't thought about that."

"Does she strike you as a deceitful person?"

Martin shook his head. "God, no."

Odd hoped he had made his point. He had a harder topic to bring up now, the one he had planned to address for the whole session.

"Have you been thinking about your options for retraining yet? You seem very unhappy without some way to be productive and I really thing you'd make better progress if you had a goal to work towards."

"Surgery is all I know. The one and only thing I was ever any good at. And I am good. Or at least I was good."

"I know. And re-training won't change how good a surgeon you are. It will just give you something to focus on in the meantime. You don't have to give up the goal of returning to surgery. Not now. But how long can you go on watching Jamie and Nigella on the box and mending Georgian clocks? You're a young man, Martin. You seem to be falling in love. You have a long future ahead of yourself. You need to get busy living it rather than waiting around."

Martin nodded.

"Psychiatry then? Going to give me a run for my money?"

Martin almost smiled at this, and then shook his head. "The training courses all seem so long. It would take five to ten years to train as an oncologist or a cardiologist. I'd be well on my way to fifty by the time I got to practice."

"How old will you be in ten years if you don't retrain?"

"Very funny."

"I'm being serious here. Your life goes on, you age, the world turns whether you are performing surgery or not. You might as well make an affirmative choice as to how to spend the time, rather than just sitting home and letting it pass you by."

"I just don't know, Odd. I AM a surgeon. I don't know how to be anything else."

"Martin, retraining isn't going to change who you are. It won't take away the skills you have or the things you've achieved. It will just add to them, give you more options."

"I'll think about it."

"Martin, you've been thinking about it over a month. It's time to do something. Classes will start in January and if you want my professional advice, I think you need to be in one of them. If you're worried about the length of the course, what about general practice? It has the shortest training course. It is usually three years but with your background you could probably do it in less."

"A GP? After all my years as a consultant you want me to throw it all away and be a GP?"

"I just mention it as one option. Give it some thought. Maybe talk to Parsons – he did the GP training and has a lot of them working for him now that he's Executive Director of the PCT in Cornwall."

Martin sighed. "Alright – I'll ring Chris. That's as far as I go right now."

"Excellent. Excellent news. So what are your plans for Christmas? I mean if you aren't going to Bath. Going to take in a panto? Carol service at St. Paul's? Tune in to the Queen?"

"I haven't any plans, not at this point. A good book, some of Auntie Joan's mince pies and Dad's bottle of port doesn't sound too bad."

"Well, Happy Christmas, Martin. I'll see you after Boxing Day."

"Happy Christmas, Odd. Give my best to Tonio."

X X X X X

"Parsons."

"Hello, Chris, it's Martin."

"Martin! How are you? Good of you to ring."

"Oh, I'm well. How are you doing? How is Tracy?"

"I've got to hand it to you, Mart. I could use ten diagnosticians like you. You were bang on right about the lupus. We just got the final test results back yesterday."

"I'm so sorry. How is she holding up?"

"Relieved, mostly. It is reassuring to have a diagnosis rather than a collection of puzzling symptoms. Lupus is no picnic but she was beginning to think I would diagnose her as a hypochondriac. I've got to thank you, Martin. I don't know how long this would have gone on undiagnosed without your input."

"Glad to be of help. Get her on the anti-malarials, will you? That should really make a difference with her symptoms."

"Will do. So how are things with Hope? She's a corker, that one. We really enjoyed meeting her. You haven't given her too much of that patented Ellingham charm, have you?"

"Hope is well. We're muddling along." Martin had his fingers crossed with this one – he was not sure she'd speak to him again after his behavior this morning.

"You two have a cozy little Christmas planned?"

"Well she's going down to Bath to see her family. I wasn't quite up for the whole meet the parents thing as yet. I plan to take her to dinner on Friday." He didn't add that this might just be wishful thinking on his part.

"I see. Well don't forget the present. And whatever you do, don't buy her any lingerie. I learned that one the hard way." He chuckled as he said this.

Martin didn't want to think about lingerie. Particularly not about Chris buying it for Tracy. "No risk of that. But what do I buy? What are you giving Tracy?"

"Well there's nothing subtle about Trace. She's very good about leaving some advert around for me to find with what she wants circled. Some kind of fancy Italian coffee maker this time. Costs the Earth and I don't see what's wrong with the cafetiere we already have," he grumbled.

Martin was not fooled by Chris's grumbling. He knew come Christmas morning, Tracy would have her coffee maker and something else nice besides. But an espresso maker – maybe that would be a good gift for Hope. She didn't have one. She seemed to like coffee.

"Well that's one you'll benefit from as much as her, Chris. Not a bad deal."

"I'd benefit from the lingerie too."

"Er, yes, well that's between you and Tracy." He fought against the mental picture from that one.

"So if you're not going to Bath, what are you doing for Christmas, Martin?"

"Er, just staying home. Dad sent port, Auntie Joan sent mince pies. I'll be fine."

"Come to Cornwall, Martin. We'd love to have you. You haven't seen Lizzie since her christening and she's your godchild. No one else will be there this year – just the four of us plus you. The kids are in the Nativity Play on Christmas Eve, you can help me play Father Christmas during the late hours and Tracy will cook a turkey with all the trimmings. It'll be fun."

"Tracy should be resting, taking care of herself."

"All the more reason for you to come, Martin. You're a dab hand in the kitchen – you can cook the turkey."

It was a nearly irresistible invitation. "Well . . ."

"Please say you'll come. Tracy would have my hide if she knew you were going to be knocking about up in London by yourself. And the change of scenery will do you good."

"Alright. You've convinced me. And Chris? Thank you. It's very kind."

"Brilliant. Just Brilliant. We'll have a great time."

When Martin hung up the phone after promises to check the train schedule and questions about gifts for the children, he mused about the prospect of Christmas with the Parsons. Whether it was the happiest Christmas ever or one of the worst was completely dependent on what happened with Hope.

X X X X X

He was waiting in the car in front of Hope's house when she came home. It was dark and pouring icy cold rain. She was fighting the wind with her umbrella and had the collar of her coat turned up against the wet and almost didn't see him. As she struggled with the lock, she looked up to find him standing beside her.

"Martin." She wasn't sure what to say. She had been fretting all day about what had been said before she left for work and wishing they could start the day all over again. She'd spend her lunch break on the phone pouring her anguish out to her sister. But she didn't have the strength to argue after the long day and all the worry. If he had come to punish her, she didn't think she could bear it.

"I was wrong. Shooting the messenger, I mean. It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault." He looked utterly miserable.

"Come in out of the weather." She drew him inside. In the light she noticed his eyes were wet – was it tears or rain? She put her umbrella in the stand by the door, set down her bag and took off her coat, hanging it on the coat tree.

He looked at her, questioningly. He knew he didn't deserve her forgiveness.

"You're all wet. Why don't you take that wet coat off?"

He did as he was told. As he hung up his coat beside hers, he thought about how these two garments looked, hanging side by side. Companionable. Almost like they belonged together.

"Hope, I love you. I was a fool to say what I did. But I love you. I know I was wrong this morning and that you may never want to see me again. But no matter what, I need you to know that I love you."

She swallowed hard, looking up at him, searchingly. She had been longing to hear these words but was overwhelmed hearing them now. It was like a strange dream. "Oh, Martin. I love you too. I wouldn't hurt you for the world."

"I know that. I wouldn't hurt you either." He stood, looking at her expectantly, waiting for an invitation to touch her. His heart was brimming; hearing her say she loved him too was more than he could have hoped for.

She threw her arms around his neck and his arms went around her waist to lift her up. Their kiss was filled with love and longing and regret and forgiveness. It felt right to be together. In this house, with just the two of them, all their worries seemed far away – they could be shut out like the darkness and the rain. Here they could love and be loved and nothing else mattered.


	21. A Red Blooded Man

**Author's Note: **This chapter is an extra one I've thrown in for fun – my little lagniappe to the kind reviewers who liked the prospect of a happy holiday celebration for the Doc.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 21 – A Red-blooded Man**

Martin looked at his watch nervously once again. He was kicking himself again for not offering to pick Hope up at the hospital party and instead asking her to meet him at the restaurant. Maybe she would be having too much fun to make it to dinner.

He had chosen the place carefully, based on its promise of a traditional Christmas dinner with all the trimmings. It was festively decorated for the holidays so he assumed they would make good on their advertising. He had packed the boot of his car with his overnight bag along with Hope's gift, some Portuguese oranges, Cornish mince pies, and the bottle of port from his parents. At least he had managed her gift. The clerk at Harrods had assured him that the model he'd chosen was the most desirable espresso machine on the market, and the store had even gift-wrapped it for him. He was a bundle of anxious anticipation, just like a boy should be on Christmas Eve.

Just as he was checking his watch again, she came rushing in. With her cream wool coat and her long golden curls, she immediately stood out among the diners waiting in the lobby of the restaurant, like a flamingo among pigeons. She smiled radiantly at him when she saw him standing near the coat check and he couldn't help smiling back.

"Hello, you!" she exclaimed as she reached him and took his hands. She fairly sparkled with beauty and excitement and love and genuine happiness.

"Hope, good evening." He had never been happier to see someone as he was now. "Shall we check our coats?"

She nodded and turned to unbutton hers. As she shrugged out of it, into his waiting hands, he couldn't help but gasp.

She looked breathtaking. She was wearing a strapless red velvet dress that hugged her body and left what seemed like acres of creamy skin bare. There was a flat bow on her left hip and a slit up the back of the shapely skirt that drew attention to her gorgeous legs. Her hair flowed around her shoulders and there was something green (he wondered if it was mistletoe) pinned on one side. She wore dangly earrings and her strappy gold sandals.

His eyes popped. "Aren't you cold?" he asked, stupidly.

Her eyes twinkled at him. "Yes, but it's completely worth it to see the look on your face."

He was immediately jealous of everyone who had seen her at the hospital party and cursed again his inability to demonstrate publicly their attachment. Any other year, it would have been quite the experience to attend a hospital function with her, looking like this, in his company. Might have made even Archibald bearable.

As she leaned up to kiss his cheek, he caught a tantalizing glimpse of something red and lacy peeking above the top of her dress for just a moment. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of feminine frippery it was, as it seemed to be making her breasts defy the laws of gravity.

She caught his look and before breaking away whispered in his ear "I'm wearing very naughty underwear tonight!" He gulped and she giggled.

He was nearly bursting his buttons with pride to escort her to the table. He smelled her sultry perfume over the delicious restaurant aromas and realized he was hungry for more than just dinner. At least one person they passed hoped for just a little of their glamour and excitement to rub off on her.

After they were seated and had ordered the special Christmas meal with champagne for Hope and mineral water for Martin, they had a few moments to talk.

"How was the party?"

"Fine, same as always, really. It would have been much nicer if you'd come. I wouldn't have had old Hypnos trying to pinch me."

"He never . . ."

"Yup. Does it every year. One glass of champagne and he's a randy one."

Martin made a personal note to stand between Hope and Alex Petropoulos if the occasion ever arose again.

"How was your day, Martin? Another appointment with Odd?"

"No, not today. I'm paroled until after Boxing Day. He and Tonio went off to Lake Como – they needed to rest up before the whole Christmas with the Earl extravaganza happens at their pile up in Scotland."

"Oh, sounds lovely."

"I made the arrangements for my trip to Cornwall for Christmas."

"I'm glad you won't be alone but I still wish you were coming with me. I'm going to miss you." There was just a bit of petulance in her voice - enough to be sweet but not annoying.

"I'll, er, miss you too." More than you know, he thought to himself. "Will you help me shop tomorrow? I need to get something called a Teletubbie for Lizzie. A yellow one, Tracy said. And a wooden engine called James for Danny. Not sure about toy shops - I could use your advice."

She chuckled at the prospect of taking Martin to a toy shop. "Of course. It will be fun. It's been ages since I had a little one to buy for."

"Good. That would be good."

"So, what about New Year's Eve?" she asked, with a bit of trepidation.

"New Year's Eve?"

"Yes, do you have plans?"

"No." In reality Martin had been hoping they could see in the New Year with a private celebration at home in bed, where sensible people should be at midnight.

"Grace is having her annual party. I have to work during the day, but I wondered if you'd come to the party with me. We could go late, maybe ten thirty or so and stay just until midnight."

"Well, I'm not much for parties . . ." he began.

"Martin, please? It would mean a lot to me. I'd like you to meet Grace and Rose anyhow. And there won't be anyone else from St. Thomas's there."

He looked dubious, but somehow he couldn't bear to disappoint her again. She'd been awfully understanding about his need to skip the hospital party. "Well, alright, if it will make you happy. But do you think we can find a quiet corner to ourselves at midnight?"

She was delighted. "Of course we can. Oh, this is terrific. I can't wait to tell Grace we're coming."

She was beaming at him, and that smile made Martin's general distaste for parties seem more manageable to him. He could do this for her.

Hope had another sip of champagne. She was just the slightest bit tipsy. She loved how he was watching her – she was experiencing the power of her feminine wiles in a way she never had before. She decided it might be exciting to watch him squirm a bit more. She leaned close and found his hand under the table, hidden by the pristine white cloth. Deftly she maneuvered it under the hem of her skirt so his fingers touched the top of her stocking, the edge of her suspender, and the warm smooth skin of her thigh.

She saw his eyes widen in what was almost alarm as he realized what he was sensing. His hand jerked back, as though he had touched a hot poker. He flushed to the tips of his ears. A tantalizing mental image seared itself into his brain.

"Just a preview, Martin," she said mischievously, "I'm wearing one of your Christmas gifts."

"Shall I call for the bill now, then?" he asked. Honestly, he did not know how he was going to get through dinner with that image in his head.

She laughed her tinkling laugh that sounded like sleigh-bells. "Not on your life. I intend to savour every morsel, including the pudding."

X X X X X

When they got back to her house, it was all he could do not to undress her in the doorway. She'd flashed him a flirty peek at the top of her stockings as she got into the car, making his mouth go dry and his conversational abilities evaporate for the ride home. He'd reluctantly let her go in first alone while he stopped to gather his belongings from the boot of the car.

When he came in the front room, he saw that while the lamps were dark, she had the fire lit and there were candles on the side table in a sort of Advent wreath. The lights on the small decorated tree twinkled in the corner, illuminating a glossy holly wreath and other decorations set around the room. Two stockings were hung by the mantle. The dining table was ready for a midnight feast, with a bottle of champagne on ice and a Christmas cake with white icing and glace cherries on top to go along with the mince pies. There was even a Christmas cracker sitting by each plate. She had been busy today as there had been no sign of the decorations the last time he had been here.

"Happy Christmas, Martin," she said softly.

He took her into his arms and kissed her in thanksgiving. "Happy Christmas, Hope." This was clearly the happiest one he'd had in his life so far.

As he held her, he couldn't forget about the hints she had given him about what was under that dress and as much as he enjoyed seeing her in it, he was also very keen to see her without it. As his hands roamed over her silky smooth skin, they came to light on the zipper to her dress. He tipped her face up to him to look into her eyes with a pleading look.

"Not yet, Martin." She broke away to open the champagne and pour them each a glass.

"Er, I'm not sure that would be a good idea for me," he protested when she handed him the crystal flute filled with golden bubbles.

"Just a sip. A toast. To us. May this be the first of many happy Christmases."

They touched their glasses and each took a sip. He set his down and kissed her again, deeply and urgently, enjoying the taste of champagne on her lips. It was intoxicating to kiss her, even without the wine. With the wine he was losing control quickly.

They sat on the sofa, gazing lovingly at each other, with the room lit only by the fire and the candles and the lights on the tree. All were flickering, casting dancing shadows across the couple as they embraced one another and enjoyed the holiday atmosphere.

His hand worked its way up from her knee to the place under her skirt it had so briefly touched beneath the restaurant table. He finally had the courage to ask "What is all this? You seem to be trussed up like a turkey." He regretted the last bit as soon as he said it. His brain did not seem to be sending sensible signals at the moment.

"I thought you might enjoy an early Christmas gift tonight," she said, teasingly.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Do you want to unwrap it yourself?" Her tone was teasing and sultry.

He nodded again, still tongue-tied.

She stood in front of him and turned her back so he could reach the zipper. He carefully slid the zipper down, and she turned back around to face him before sliding the dress down over her hips and onto the floor.

Naughty underwear indeed! She was wearing a strapless red lace bustier with suspenders. It laced up the front and the satin strings were tied in a bow in the valley between her breasts. The suspenders were red satin as well, attached to the tops of pale silk stockings with seams up the back. She wore impossibly tiny red lace knickers with it – tied on each hip with another satin bow, an arrangement apparently intended to permit the removal of the knickers while the suspenders stayed on. With the high-heeled gold sandals still on her feet, she looked like the vixen out of every man's fantasy. Intoxicating beyond what any wine could do.

Martin generally was ignorant of women's underclothes and pleased to remain so. Hope's usual choices were simple and his usual preference was for her out of them rather than in them. But this. The way she looked now took his breath away and aroused him beyond what he could have imagined, even in the restaurant. Erotic beyond his wildest dreams.

"So?"

"Yes?"

"You haven't said. Do you like this?" She was beginning to feel self-conscious about her decision. The underwear had been a last minute acquisition and she now wondered whether it might have been a mistake. She still had the muffler she'd knit for him in tasteful navy lamb's wool and the framed copy of the photo Tracy had taken of the two of them at dinner a few weeks ago. Maybe she should have stuck with those. Her face took on a worried look.

"Hope, you look . . . you look beautiful. Like a present all wrapped up for Christmas." He felt inadequate to the task of telling her how he felt. "I love you. I love that you did this for me." He took her in his arms and kissed her, pressing against her so there could be no doubt in her mind the effect she and her sexy attire were having on him.

She relaxed a little, knowing she had not erred in her choice and shivered slightly in his arms with desire and anticipation.

"Do you want to go upstairs? Would you be warmer?"

"No, here by the fire is nice. It's festive."

So in the flickering light, she slowly undressed him, piece by piece, as he kissed her and caressed her gently, tracing the shadows from the firelight on her skin with fingertips and lips. He had to admit it was sensuous to move his hands between her smooth, silky skin and the lace and satin confection she wore. But like any good boy at Christmas, he knew the real gift was inside the wrappings, however exotic they might be.

He massaged her feet as he removed the sandals. His mouth captured hers and then traced a path to bit of red lace that had so saucily shown itself to him in the dining room. With infinite care, he untied the bow at the top to free her breasts and the bows at each hip to remove the lacy knickers. He unhooked the stockings and rolled them languorously down her legs and set his talented surgeon's hands to the intricate work of removing the corset until it was just her, in all her beauty, unwrapped for him, like Father Christmas had read his mind. He ran his hands over her nakedness with worshipful hands and she responded by putting her arms around his neck and pulling him down into an embrace. "I need . . . I want . . . I love . . ." he was speechless.

"Shhh," she said. "I know. I need you too, Martin, my love." She arched against him so that he could sense she desired him as much as he did her.

Together they made love with passion and exquisite tenderness in equal measures on the floor in the firelight under the Christmas tree. It would be the best of all Christmases for each of them.


	22. Blood Transfusion

**Losing It**

**Chapter 22 – Blood Transfusion**

Martin was going to be very glad to get back to London. His trip to Cornwall had been less than satisfactory. He had been reminded yet again how much he hated being a house guest, trying to fit into the rhythm of somebody else's life. The children hadn't helped – God, they were irritating. Lizzie, whose religious upbringing had ostensibly been placed in Martin's not very willing hands at her christening was absolutely terrified of Martin and emitted piercing shrieks whenever she saw him. Her mother's attempts to calm her tended to result in a stubborn frown and a declaration that "Uncle Martin is a meanie!" which in his mind was totally unjustified. Hadn't he gone to three bloody toy shops trying to find the blasted doll that looked like an alien and bleated three annoying phrases on an endless loop while Lizzie dragged it around? What more could she ask of him?

He hadn't fared much better with Danny, who seemed to have an endless list of questions to ask Martin – about trains and dinosaurs and football and other topics as alien to Martin as Lizzie's doll. When he tired of those, Danny would probe Martin's personal life with the brutal honesty and insatiable curiosity of a young child – why aren't you married? Don't you like children? Why do your feet smell funny? Why don't you wear regular clothes? Martin's exasperated "None of your business," had sent the boy off in a huff. He resented Martin all the more because he had been displaced from his bedroom and relegated to a camp bed in Chris's study to make room for the guest. Danny seemed extremely dubious about giving even temporary custody of his stuffed bears and his wooden trains and his plastic dinosaurs to Martin. For his part, Martin could have done without stepping on stray Lego pieces that embedded themselves in his bare feet when he least expected it.

His efforts to help Tracy had brought mixed results at best. She was grateful for his sous-chef skills but not happy about his endless "suggestions" for improving the nutritional value of her menu (and what would have been so wrong with adding brewer's yeast to the chestnut dressing, he asked himself). He had reduced the usually feisty Tracy to a puddle of tears with his comment that she was doing her children a disservice by trying to carry on with her nursing job while struggling with Lupus and her role as a wife and mother. He hadn't meant to upset her, really he hadn't. He cared about her and thought her health and her family ought to be her priorities. But the more he tried to explain, the harder she'd cried until he'd finally given up and explained himself to Chris with a request that Chris point out Martin's sincere intentions to Tracy when she was feeling less emotional.

There had been some nice moments too, he'd had to admit. Watching the children's excitement as they prepared for bed on Christmas Eve, hearing the familiar carols sung in the old stone church by flickering candle light, listening to Chris and Tracy banter with each other and the children. But he'd missed Hope. There was a nearly unbearable ache in his chest that could only be attributed to his own loneliness in the midst of this happy family celebration.

Christmas afternoon, Martin and Chris took a long post-prandial ramble during which Martin filled Chris in on his work with Odd and Odd's suggestion that Martin re-train as a GP.

"I think it's a capital idea," Chris exclaimed. "There's a real shortage of capable doctors choosing general practice; I'd give my eyeteeth to have someone with your talents and qualifications practicing with the PCT in Cornwall. My God! Wouldn't that be a coup?"

"What do you think it would take to retrain?"

"Well, the usual course is three years and you typically have to start in September and apply the preceding April."

"God. What am I going to do until September?" Martin's balloon was deflating rapidly.

"Hang on – that's just the typical course. Given your experience, they might be willing to specially tailor a shorter course for you, like the do for doctors who trained abroad, say, or women coming back from maternity leave."

"I see. Do you think any place would let me start up in January? Or even April? If the purpose of this exercise is to keep me occupied while Odd and I try to get my, er, little blood issue sorted, I'd like to start sooner rather than later."

"Well I have contacts at all of the Deanery offices of course. I can make some inquiries; see what we can find out. Keen on staying in London, are you? Or would you be willing to go to, say Manchester or even Truro if I could find a place for you there?"

Martin stopped short. He hadn't even considered geography. "Well Odd is in London, of course," he began, slowly," so it would be easier to carry on with my, er, treatment in London. And I do have my flat . . ." He was talking about practical things but he was thinking about Hope. She was in London. Surely he should stay there to be near her.

It was as if Chris read his mind. "And Hope? She's London-based, too, isn't she?" He watched Martin's face closely as he asked this. He was extremely curious about what was going on between them, but he knew better than to ask directly. He had expected Martin to be on the telephone with her all weekend and had been surprised that he had only witnessed one call, just as they were coming home from church.

"Er, yes. Another reason to stay close to London." Martin tried and failed to seem casual as he said this. He was startled to realize how much he needed her presence in his life and he just couldn't imagine moving away from her.

"Okay. Well, on Tuesday I'll make some calls, see what the London Deanery has available."

"Thank you, Chris. I appreciate this."

"Don't mention it. I'm still scheming to see if I can get you to go into practice down here when you're through. Wouldn't that be great?"

"Well, that assumes I don't get the blood thing sorted and find another job as a surgeon first."

"Ah, yes. Of course. What does Odd say about that?"

"Well he's sure that the haemophobia is just a symptom – that this really is post-traumatic stress disorder. The smell of blood, the smell of cauterized flesh, even the sight of blood is triggering a physical and emotional response to some past trauma. So it is not that I am afraid of blood per se, it's that blood reminds me of something that has caused me pain or anxiety or fear in the past. Something I fear happening again or fear re-living or being reminded of. Why this happened and why it happened now are still unanswered questions. Right now we are combing through my past, looking for clues so I can address the trauma first." Martin didn't add that his past had proved a fertile ground for trauma in Odd's eyes, but Chris already knew that. "Then desensitization treatment. Hypnosis, maybe. Cognitive behavior therapy." Martin sighed. A look of pain crossed his face. "Odd can't assure me that I'll ever know why or that I ever will operate again."

Chris considered this. Poor bugger, he thought. For a man whose career is his whole life and his whole identity, this must be like a death sentence. He resolved to find some way, any way, to get Martin back working at something again.

X X X X X

The hospital had been a zoo on New Year's Eve. Hope was drained by the end of her shift, and seriously questioning the wisdom of her shifts in obstetrics. Martin might have the right idea after all – there are some obvious advantages to dealing with your patients when they are unconscious.

Today's thorn in Hope's side had been a woman who'd gone into labour during her trial at the Old Bailey for conspiring with her lover to murder his wife. She'd been brought to hospital in handcuffs and two uniformed WPC's had stayed through the entire birthing process, getting in the way of all the medical personnel and generally making nuisances of themselves. The labouring woman had shouted obscenities at anyone in earshot, and Hope had been sorely tempted to render the blasted woman unconscious so she wouldn't have to listen to her.

When she arrived home, she was not feeling particularly festive. She sensed a cold coming on and there was part of her that just wanted a bubble bath and a hot drink and an early night in her own bed, alone. She pushed her reservations aside. She'd practically begged Martin, against his will, to agree to attend the party, and Rose and Grace had been badgering her for weeks about meeting him. The entire Christmas holiday she had been interrogated about him, about them, until she'd been ready to scream.

She poured herself a medicinal glass of whiskey and added hot water to warm it up. She indulged in her bubble bath, and thought maybe she did feel a bit better. Even so, she had a rough cough every time she walked around, so she rummaged in the lavatory cupboard and dosed herself with a cough remedy before getting dressed.

She still had a chilled feeling, so she dressed in a black cashmere sweater-dress with leggings and boots. More casual than some other New Year's Eves, she mused, but warm and cozy seemed appropriate tonight. She added simple gold earrings and a scarf to hold her hair back, and went downstairs to put her feet up on the sofa until it was time to go.

Martin was excited about seeing Hope – their schedules had not permitted much beyond a quick telephone call since she went to Bath. He was not excited about going to the party – in fact he was dreading it and beginning to resent Hope just a little for insisting that he go. He really wasn't any good at parties.

He did have promising news to report. Chris had heard from the London Deanery that there was a place opening up at St. Mary's due to a student's decision to emigrate to Australia, and with the permission of Archibald and the NHS and submission of his medical school qualifications Martin would be able to start re-training in three weeks. He was starting to believe that this really might be happening, and he was hoping against hope for her blessing. He loved her, he knew he did. And to be a whole man, worthy of her love in return, he needed to find a way to work.


	23. Bloodshed

**Losing It **

**Chapter 23 – Bloodshed**

"Got it. Grace is the barrister, Rose is the banker. The boyfriend is Gavin – he belongs to Rose, right?"

Hope nodded. "And whatever you do, don't mention Richard," she added, nervously.

"Check. Grace's ex-husband. He won't be there, will he?"

"Not on your life. I think she has a restraining order."

"Okay. And Gavin's the artist?"

"Yeah. Some kind of sculptor. I just met him over Christmas."

"Good." He looked at her, steeling himself for the encounters to come.

"Ready?" She held out her hand to take his.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

"Right. And Martin? Thanks. Thanks for coming." She reached up and kissed his cheek before she rang the bell.

The door opened to admit them to a gracious home, light and airy with modern art and sleek furniture. Not at all like Hope's style, Martin noted, but tasteful nonetheless. As they entered, Martin heard squealing as Hope was embraced exuberantly by the woman who opened the door.

"You're here! We've been dying, you know; just dying for you to get here. Grace? Grace! Hope's here. Hope and Martin." She turned to pump Martin's hand. "You must be Martin. I'm thrilled, simply thrilled to meet you." She seemed to be looking him over with insatiable curiosity.

"Ah, yes. You must be Rose. Happy New Year." He struggled to shut the door behind him.

"Rose, let us get in the door, why don't you?" scolded Hope. But she was smiling. "Rose, this is Martin. Martin Ellingham. And Martin, this madwoman is my baby sister, Rose."

Just then they were joined by another woman who was clearly the third Fairfax sister. "Hope – how lovely you're here." She kissed her sister before looking Martin up and down with an intensity that surprised him. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, Hope?"

"Martin Ellingham." He took the initiative and held out his hand to shake.

She shook it and smiled, but was clearly reserving judgment. "Glad to finally meet you. Hope's told us so much about you. Let me take your coats."

It was fascinating to Martin to observe how the DNA of Gerald and Philippa Fairfax had manifested itself in these three women, all beautiful, all clearly related but so very different too. Grace was a taller, lankier, more angular version of Hope. The planes of her face looked sharp enough to draw blood. There was fierceness about her – you immediately could tell she would be a formidable opponent in the court room. She had the same honey-coloured hair as Hope did, but it was stick straight and cut in a short, choppy style that probably was intended to make it easier to manage with her white wig. Her eyes were the familiar brown, but while Hope's were warm and liquid and reminded him of cognac, Grace's were more like amber, attractive but ultimately cold and hard. In her black palazzo pants and a white organdy blouse, her look was chic but tailored, like a young Katharine Hepburn.

Rose, on the other hand, was like a blurry enlargement of Hope. She was taller than either of her sisters, broader, too, and curvier. Her green wrap dress showed off impressive cleavage and the kind of bum that Freddy Mercury had rhapsodized about. Her features were softer, her chin rounder, her cheekbones less prominent than her sisters'. Her brown eyes flashed sparks, and her softly curling hair had reddish, strawberry blonde tones. In Martin's eyes, she lacked the delicate prettiness of Hope but it didn't mean she wasn't charming in that jolly-hockey-sticks sort of way. She was the kind of girl who wanted to turn heads and she did. Her enthusiastic and animated personality reminded him of nothing so much as a Labrador retriever, all kisses and paws and wagging tail, tripping over itself with excitement.

Martin was alternately proud and amazed that he seemed to have snagged the choicest of the Fairfax sisters.

Grace disappeared with the coats, while Rose linked arms with Hope and they two sisters led the way to the dining room where drinks were set out on the sideboard.

"Champagne, Martin?" Rose offered, handing a glass to Hope without even asking her.

"Er, no, not for me. " Martin surveyed the room and the adjoining lounge in one direction and kitchen in the other. There appeared to be thirty or so people there, sipping champagne, helping themselves to the food on the dining room table, chatting in knots of twos and threes. Music was playing in the background but he couldn't quite pick out what it was. He saw Hope trying to catch his eye over her glass of champagne, and he gave her what he hoped was a reassuring look.

A tall, muscle-bound man in his thirties, with a strange beard and shaggy hair, came up behind Rose and embraced her possessively. She giggled and blushed, then turned to give him an almost pornographic kiss. Martin was shocked to see this sod, who had to be the promised Gavin, running his hand under the edge of Rose's skirt in a lascivious way that Martin found wholly inappropriate in a public place. Martin didn't know where to look so he looked at his feet, and then at Hope, who shrugged and gave him a bemused look.

"Oi, there, Rosie. Save something for the honeymoon, why don't you?"

Martin saw Rose look guiltily at Hope as she pulled away. No matter how old they were, it seemed that Hope still had the authority of an older sister.

"Er, Martin, this is my boyfriend, Gavin Lane. Gav, darling, this is Hope's friend, Martin. And you remember Hope, don't you, darling?" Rose was giving her hair flirty little tosses as she spoke, making it very hard not to think about what was going through her head.

"Ah, the fair Hope. It's Doctor Hope, isn't it? The most accomplished of the whole brood? The family's famous and talented consultant, or so I'm told? You can put me to sleep anytime you like, luv." Gavin winked, and then kissed Hope's cheek with a familiarity that made Martin's skin crawl.

The cretin's name rang a bell with Martin. "Gavin. I know your work – didn't you have a show at the Simon Winters gallery a month or so ago?" Martin, having far too much time on his hands lately, had seen a seemingly endless parade of gallery openings, so he was struggling to place the familiar name with the blur of artwork, most of it rubbish as far as he was concerned, that he had been to see.

"Right-o – that was me." Gavin shook Martin's hand with a strong grip that let Martin feel the calluses on the man's palm and left him with a distinct impression of griminess. Martin grimaced and wished he'd thought to put anti-bacterial gel in his pocket.

"Gav is really accomplished too, aren't you, darling?" gushed Rose. "He's just been offered a commission for a new installation in Leeds; a new office block there – big installation in the courtyard. Wonderful opportunity and such a lot of lovely lolly." Rose was preening, basking in the glow of admiration she imagined people having for Gavin.

"Sounds, er, brilliant," said Hope, looking warily at Rose.

"Er, yes," added Martin. He was looking at Gavin's body art with some distaste. God. 'Anthracks.' Can't even bloody spell in whatever hellhole he acquired that in, Martin thought. He wondered what communicable diseases the sculptor might have picked up along with his tattoo. Just looking at him set Martin's teeth on edge.

"What about you, then, Marvin was it? What's your line of work?" Gavin was speaking to Martin, but gazing at Rose, like he wanted to lick her.

Hope was furious – Martin recognized the fire in her eyes without really knowing its cause. Before he had a chance to answer Gavin's question, Hope was jumping in. "It's Martin, Gav, not Marvin. And he's a doctor. Just had brilliant career news of his own, too. He's received word today that he has a place to start re-training as a GP in January. Marvelous news." She took Martin's arm protectively, trying to communicate that she would defend him in this peculiar sisterly one-ups-man-ship.

Martin turned white. He felt all of the blood run out of his face. He was horrified and humiliated and outraged and despondent all in one breath. He was a surgeon, damn her, best in his field, sought out for the most complex cases. A vascular surgery consultant. And in one comment she'd wiped it away, made it irrelevant. He still was a surgeon, damn it; he had to be. It was the only thing he knew about himself. His one constant. How could she be so cavalier about it? It was all he could do not to scream.

Hope had no idea what was in his head at this moment. She wasn't actually quite sure what was going on in her head either as the combination of the champagne, her hot whiskey and the cough remedy was beginning to have an unfortunate effect. She felt quite woozy, really. But she could sense that Martin was being silent and unsmiling. Would it really be so hard for him to make an effort, she wondered.

Gavin looked unperturbed. "A man of science, eh? Well from what I've heard, you'll have to get up pretty early in the morning to keep up with that one," he noted, cocking his head at Hope. "You have that in you, you think, boyo?"

Rose giggled.

Not knowing what else to say, Martin excused himself to find a glass of water for himself. Hope pointed him in the direction of the kitchen, and went off to see what was for supper. She realized she hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that the lack of food might be contributing to the wooziness.

Martin was alone in the kitchen. As he filled his glass at the tap, he overheard voices and he recognized them as Grace and Rose, who had to be in a pantry or something off to his left.

". . . not at all what I imagined. I mean, really. She went on and on about how handsome he was and then here he is. Dresses like someone's dad. On the flabby side too – not buff like my Gav. And did you see those ears? Brad Pitt he's not, that's for certain."

"To each her own, I guess. It's all subjective. And you know Hope. Always goes for the broody, tortured type. The Heathcliffs and Mr. Darcys of the world. Anyone Colin Firth might play in a film. So this unsmiling doctor might fall in that category."

"What is it with this doctor business anyhow? Didn't she tell us he was some kind of a hot-shot surgeon? She just told Gav he's going back to re-train as a GP. Why on earth would he do that if he's already a big deal surgeon? There's something weird here. Something I don't like at all."

"Well he's her choice. And with her track record, we need to be nice, for her sake. " Grace sounded thoughtful. "Be nice, but be watchful."

Rose changed the topic. "What d'ya think of Gav, then, Gracie? Isn't he just a dish? I could eat him up." She sighed.

"You looked like you just might do when I saw you in there," Grace pointed out, wryly. "You ought to . . ."

Martin took his glass of water and slunk out of the kitchen, trying to make sure he wouldn't run into Hope's sisters. It was unsettling to hear them dissect him like that. He should have been happy to hear that Hope had described him as handsome and a hot-shot surgeon. But somehow he missed that in the conversation and only heeded the disdain in Grace's voice and Rose's snarky comments. Broody tortured type indeed.

He found Hope at the dining table, fixing a little plate. When he saw her take a fondue fork, he hissed in her ear, "No, you don't want that. God, it must be crawling with bacteria. Everyone dipping their forks in the food and then putting them in their mouths and then back in the food. Revolting."

Hope gave him a horrified look, and he thought it meant she had appreciated his public service announcement. He was only looking out for her health after all. But he realized he had misread the situation when she very pointedly dipped a piece of potato into the hot cheese mixture and then popped it into her mouth. He gave her a look of disgust.

After putting a small bunch of grapes on his plate, which in his mind was the only thing safe to eat from the table in light of the perceived lack of hygiene of the other guests, he proceeded to guide Hope to a chair by the window in the lounge, and lowered himself into the chair next to hers.

"Why? Why did you have to say that? There was absolutely no reason." There was venom and anger in his voice.

Hope looked befuddled. "Why did I say what? I'm not following you, Martin."

"Why did you tell everyone I need re-training? Like I'm some kind of an idiot that can't do his job. And they way you said it - Like I was a school boy, to be petted and made much of for my meager accomplishments. I can speak up for myself, thank you very much." His tone was angry and his grey eyes steely and cold.

"What? I am so happy for your news. It is the best thing I've heard all week. I am extremely proud of you, really I am." She knew better than to add that he did need to retrain, that he couldn't do his old job and that she loved him all the more for his willingness to find a new way forward.

"So you show it by humiliating me in front of that lecherous sod your sister brought round? The one with the misspelled tattoo and his hand halfway up her arse in a public place? And your sisters too? I mean really, what are they going to think of me?"

"They love you, of course they do. How could they not? And what does it matter what they think anyway? You're not making sense."

"I'M not making sense? That's rich. Absolutely rich. This isn't about me; it's about what you said in there."

"Martin, please calm down. You're making a scene." She could feel the bile rising in her throat.

"Me? Me! I didn't start this." This was a whispered hiss.

"I'm feeling a bit unwell. Will you excuse me?" With that Hope stumbled off toward the lavatory, her mind reeling, her heart sinking, and her eyes brimming with tears.

Martin watched her go, with the ire and resentment still bubbling in his craw. He drank his water and stabbed at the grapes with a fork, looking darkly out the window rather than at any of the other guests. He was sorry he had come, he was quite certain of that. He longed for the jollier time they would have had if they had spent a quiet evening at home, just the two of them. That he knew how to do.

As he was imagining the night he would have liked to have had, Rose came and tapped him on the shoulder. "Martin, it's Hope. I think she's ill. Can you come with me?"

Rose led the way to the lavatory door, where she knocked loudly. "Hope? Hope, it's Rose. I've brought Martin, like you asked. Hope? Are you okay?"

Martin could hear sounds of running water and what sounded like sniffling. He heard the lock turn and the door opened a crack.

"Hope, shall I come in, then?" he asked. The door opened a bit wider and he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

From the distinct odor in the room and the fact that Hope was assiduously gargling, he surmised that she had been vomiting. He reached out to touch her forehead which he found to be slightly warm, indicative of a barely elevated temperature.

"What's happened, then? Have you contracted a virus?" The barest note of concern had crept into his voice.

"Martin, it's fine. Just a bad combination, I think. I've had this cold coming on, so I had a hot whiskey at home, and a cough remedy. I don't think it mixed very well with the champagne. Plus it was all on an empty stomach."

Any hint of compassion evaporated. "Good Lord, Hope. What sort of a doctor exactly are you? You ought to know better than that, Miss High and Mighty Consultant, not to mix cough remedies with alcohol, let alone both whiskey and champagne. That could be lethal! You don't let your patients do that, do you? Not the ever so perfect Doctor Fairfax. Good God." He was in high dudgeon now, and not paying any attention to Hope's stricken face or the tears squeezing out of her eyes.

She vomited again. He could have saved himself then, could have held her hair out of the way and rubbed her back and said 'better out than in' like her mum had. He could have offered to take her home and tuck her in bed with a hot water bottle and a mug of tea. Anything would have done it, any sign that he loved her, that he wanted to take care of her.

Instead he stuffed it, and at that moment all was lost. "God, that's disgusting," he said, looking away. "I guess you won't do that again, will you? Mixing cough remedies with alcohol? What is it with you women doctors, anyway? Even if they're good at taking care of others, they're horrid at taking care of themselves." It was his pride speaking, his hurt, and his pain. He was in the depths of despair and seemed determined to take her down with him. He just stood there with an outraged look on his face, staring into the mirror.

She was openly sobbing now. She flushed away the vomit and rinsed her mouth again, sobbing all the time. She was confused and crushed that he made no move to console her, and grieving the loss of the man she had been so sure he was. She made the effort to pull herself together.

"Martin, I'm sorry. It's hard, just too hard."

"What's hard, Hope?"

"This. Us." She waved her hand between them. "It's just so hard loving you."

He looked up, hearing the pain in her voice for the first time.

"Hope . . . Hope what . . ." She didn't give him a chance to finish.

"Martin, I can't cope. Just go, just go now. I'm through." She closed her eyes and laid her forehead against the tile.

Grace had come into the lavatory at just that moment, just in time to hear Hope's last words. She looked at Martin with her hard, questioning eyes, then wrapped her arm around Hope and guided her out into the corridor.

Martin looked in the mirror. He despised what he saw there. He was still looking when Rose and Gavin came in behind him.

"Time for you to go, mate," said Gavin. "She doesn't want to see you."

Rose handed Martin his coat and silently he put it on. As he walked out of the lavatory, he could hear Hope's muffled sobs from the bedroom down the corridor, but with Gavin's firm grip on his elbow, he knew that there was no way they were going to let him see her, let him try to explain, let him try to understand. The Fairfax sisters had closed ranks and he was on the outside.


	24. Bleeding Out

**Author's Note: **For those of you trying to keep track of my time line, this chapter takes place New Year's Eve 2002. To compute this, I started with the birth of Baby Ellingham in July 2009. It appeared from Martin's comments to Pauline that he had been in Portwenn for four years at that point, so I have pegged his arrival in Portwenn in July, 2005 at the age of approximately 41 (based on his being in Portwenn at age 11 and Joan saying he hadn't been there in 30 years). This makes him approximately 38 in the first week of October, 2002 when The Incident takes place.

**Losing It**

**Chapter 24 – Bleeding Out**

Martin left the party in a daze and walked right past his car. He found himself on the embankment before he pulled out his mobile and tried to call Hope. He got no answer. When the voicemail came on, he heard her oh so familiar voice saying "Hello, this is Hope Fairfax . . ." and a lump formed in his throat too big to allow him to leave a message. Not that he knew what he should say. God, he had made a mess of things. He couldn't bear thinking about what he had said to her. It had sounded awful as soon as it came out of his mouth but there hadn't been a chance to take it back, to explain, or even to apologize.

He dialed again, and again, and again. Each time he heard her recorded message and something inside him ached. He could hear her sad voice in his head so clearly, saying it was too hard to love him. He had long suspected, since he was a child really, that he was unlovable, and this merely confirmed his own expectations. He had just been beginning to think this fear had been a mistake, finding himself so unexpectedly being loved by this exceptional woman. But now he knew it was true, now that she couldn't bear to be in his presence. Acknowledging this loss caused him overwhelming heartache. And rashly he vowed never to succumb to love again as he now knew that pain must follow just as surely as day follows night or as the New Year follows the old.

He worried about her. She was ill; he couldn't get that out of his mind. In her sister's lavatory, he could only focus on her folly in mixing medicine and alcohol but in the cold night air he saw more clearly and realized her illness was real whatever its cause and he had let her down. Dramatically. Whatever the cause, the medical needs of a patient, especially one he loved so much it hurt, had to come first. He promised himself then and there if he ever had another chance he would not make this error again.

He grew agitated thinking about how her distress had infuriated him instead of inspiring his sympathies, and he felt ashamed, remembering how she had helped him without judgment when he had drunk himself into a disgusting stupor only a few short weeks ago. She had worried about him, come to his rescue, doctored him up, cleaned his flat, and saved him the humiliation of being dragged to hospital. For what? So he could treat her with contempt when she made a comparatively tiny mistake of her own? No wonder she couldn't bear to be with him. He was utterly contemptible.

On and on again he dialed her mobile, only to be met with her recorded voice. Eventually, it started going straight to voicemail – she had turned it off. Soon after, the charge on his mobile was gone and in rage and frustration he flung the blasted thing into the Thames.

He wasn't really paying attention when midnight came, when the old year slid away into the past and the new slipped over the horizon. Not that there weren't fireworks and bells pealing and laughing, happy people out in the cold night air, celebrating. He simply didn't see them, hear them. In his misery he could only focus on what he had irreparably, irretrievably lost.

He found himself on a bridge – he wasn't even sure which bridge. As he stood there, a truly miserable bugger if ever there was one, he contemplated flinging himself into the Thames as he had the phone. He certainly didn't see much in his future. He could catalog what he had lost this year. He had lost his objectiveness, lost his ability to perform surgery, lost his profession as well as his position; he had lost his purpose and his self-confidence and his identity. He had lost the admiration of his peers and his ability to support himself and his father's approval. He had lost his future and his friends and his way. And he had lost Hope.

He took a coin out of his pocket and dropped it over the edge, just to judge the distance down. The medical man and the perfectionist in him needed to know precisely what would kill him – the fall or the icy water – before making his final decision. As he watched it go, an image of a funeral, his funeral, flashed before his eyes. And the image included Hope, weeping as she had wept at Dennis Sedgwick's funeral.

God, he couldn't do that to her. If he killed himself tonight, she would blame herself, he knew she would. Even if it wasn't her fault in the slightest she would still blame herself. He remembered how heartbreakingly she had wept at the funeral of a man she'd never met and wondered how much worse it might have been if it were someone she knew. He remembered how panicked she had been thinking he had overdosed on pain tablets and that was before, well before a lot of things. The idea of causing her any more pain than he already had was anathema to him. Against his Hippocratic Oath. He would have to survive the night somehow, if only to spare her that. It was his duty.

He was freezing now. He couldn't feel his toes in his thin leather shoes and he had no hat on. He tucked his muffler tighter around his neck. It was the one Hope had knitted for him, his Christmas gift. Somehow he felt closer to her having that bit of navy blue wool around his neck, leading him away from the bridge, away from the easy way out. Back to the slings and arrows, he guessed.

As he wended his way back to the car, retracing his steps, he thought more about what it meant to go on living. He had a sense of clarity about his life that had been missing. Up until now, the GP training had been a place holder - busy work to keep him sane while he figured out how to be a surgeon again. But as he looked at it now, he realized that everyone – Odd and Chris and Hope and Archibald and Mac Nab – had been trying to tell him that he needed to find a future that was not dependent on his ability to perform surgery. It wasn't fair and it wasn't fun, but he was going to have to either fish or cut bait now – either throw himself into GP training with the same intensity and commitment he had put into training as a surgeon or reject the possibility and allow them to pension him off as disabled and unable to work. He desperately wanted there to be a third option, another choice, something more palatable. But there wasn't. Even if he didn't need the income, which he would at some point as his savings wouldn't last forever, he needed something to do. He had no family to speak of, no serious hobbies, and few friends. At 38 years old, he had a long life ahead of him if he didn't jump off a bridge. So what would it be? Taking the pension and wallowing or trying something new?

When he reached the car, he realized he couldn't go home. Not now. There would be booze and pills and drain cleaner and the gas cooker all tempting him to end it all despite his vow to spare Hope the pain. And his flat contained too many reminders of her. While they had certainly spent more time at her place, he still had visions of their first kiss on his sofa, of her sitting on his worktop and swinging her legs as he cooked dinner for her, of making love to her in his bed, of her sleeping contentedly in his arms. He would undoubtedly find a strand of her hair, a trace of her scent, one of her infernal hair ties somewhere when he least expected it. And now, on the mantle, in pride of place, was the framed photo of the two of them she had given him as a gift.

As if on autopilot, he drove to St. Thomas's, not really knowing he was doing it or why. When he pulled up in the car park, though, he laughed bitterly and added one more item to list of things he'd lost – his parking spot. Now assigned to Mr. Carter, whoever that was. With some satisfaction, he pulled into the spot anyhow; daring Carter or whoever might be enforcing the regulations to chase him out of what had been his spot for over ten years.

He left the car with an idea. Avoiding A&E, which would likely be crawling on New Year's Eve, and the regular staff entrance, where he might be recognized, he crept through the familiar corridors, silently saying if not goodbye then see you around. He made his way first to what had been his office – shared with the rest of the team. He saw that someone had boxed up his things already, and that his desk now had a sign that read "James Brian Mac Nab, FRCS". Good for Mac, he thought.

He took the box labeled "Mr. Ellingham" and looked inside. It was very bittersweet. He was glad, though, that he had kept very few personal items in his desk. The idea of someone rummaging through his things was unsettling. But he had some copies of articles he'd written, a few photographs of himself and colleagues at various functions, a gag gift or two his students had given him, his diplomas and certificates and licenses. His fountain pen was there – the one his parents had given him at his graduation, and his black umbrella. A coffee cup and a cigar of dubious origins.

Next he headed to the changing room. There was more of a chance of being seen on the way up there, but somehow he wasn't and the place was deserted when he walked in. He went straight to his locker, which he hadn't seen since the day he'd heard that horrible gossip about himself and Hope. When he opened his locker, he smelled an odd, musty odor which he quickly determined was coming from an ancient cheese and tomato sandwich, still in its plastic carton, abandoned that day in October. He held his nose and tossed it in the bin.

He removed the suit and shoes and tie he had abandoned that day, as well as his toiletries, his spare clogs, and some extra clothes he kept there for emergencies. In the back was an old mac he'd forgotten he owned. That was it. He found a green paper carrier bag in the recycling box and soon all his remaining physical ties to the Department of Vascular Surgery at St. Thomas's Hospital were tidily wrapped up. He was ready to move on.

He drove idly around London until nearly four before heading home, spent and ready for sleep. Upon arriving home, though, he had one more chore before he could rest. He lined up on the draining board every bottle of whiskey and brandy and wine in the house. The Christmas port and the cooking sherry. A lonesome bottle of Hope's dad's beer she'd brought over one night. One by one he meticulously opened them and poured the contents down the drain. Each bottle was assiduously rinsed and placed in the recycling bin, ready to be disposed of properly tomorrow. He checked the cupboard in the lavatory. When he found sleeping pills and the pain pills, he took them out and mixed them with used coffee grounds and put them in the trash. He would sleep better without the temptation.

He went to the mantle and took down the photo. He looked at it with tears in his eyes. He knew know that her loving him had been a gift. One he had been unworthy of so far, but had been given anyway. He kissed the glass over the image of her lips lightly. Then he took the muffler and the photo and put them in a bottom drawer out of sight.

X X X X X

Martin would never know that Hope was crying his name that New Year's Eve. That she'd been weeping to her sisters that they had misunderstood her. She meant she was done with the row, not done with the relationship. She meant that she wanted Martin to leave the lavatory, possibly leave the party but not leave her, not for good. He would never know that she still loved him, she missed him, and she wanted him.

Hope would never know he tried to call. Grace had discovered Hope's mobile that night while tidying up after the party. Thinking it was for the best she deleted the missed calls and turned the phone off. Hope would feel hurt and abandoned and bereft. Grace would never tell her what she had done and Hope would never think to suspect her sister of such an underhanded thing.

He would never know how ill she was. That the cold she felt coming on was really a nasty influenza and she would be wiped out for several weeks. Rose and Gavin would drive her down to Bath for her mother to fuss over her. He would never know that it was truly illness and not alcohol that caused her to be woozy and say things she might not have otherwise.

The texts she sent Martin when he didn't answer his mobile went unanswered as well, and she would never know it was because the mobile was at the bottom of the Thames.

It would be a year before they saw each other again. And by then it was too late.


	25. Blood, Sweat and Tears

**Losing It**

**Chapter 25 – Blood, Sweat and Tears**

**May 15, 2005**

Martin picked up his post on the way in with the shopping. After stowing his purchases and making himself a cup of coffee, he took his letters to the dining table to peruse.

The first was a large business envelope bearing something he'd been waiting for – his certificate from the Royal College of General Practitioners. He already knew that he had passed his exams, even the clinical practicum and case studies, so the certificate was merely a formal confirmation. Still, it was the one piece of necessary documentation remaining for the application dossiers he was submitting to the various search committees. He was thrilled it had come today as he was very interested in a practice Chris Parsons had asked him to apply for in Cornwall. The GP in Portwenn had died, and the PCT of which Chris was the Executive Director was conducting a search for the replacement. Martin's happiest childhood memories were of the handful of summers he had spent in Portwenn with his Auntie Joan and Uncle Phil. Phil was dead now, of course, but that was all the more reason to consider moving closer to Auntie Joan.

The second envelope held a note from Dr. Marjorie Larchmont, the indomitable head of the GP Training Programme at St. Mary's. She was dropping him a line to let him know that she had sent a letter of recommendation on his behalf to the NHS, to be included in his various PCT applications. He smiled as he tried to imagine what she had written.

Marjorie was a shrewd judge of character and an excellent teacher, but even she had been unsure what to make of Martin when he arrived at St. Mary's, morose and oh so arrogant, with a chip on his shoulder that threatened to topple him over. She had called him on the carpet at the end of the first week and insisted that he stop calling his fellow students stupid and that he treat his tutors with more respect. A chastened Martin had flushed red when she reminded him none too gently of what he had demanded of his own juniors when he was in charge.

Marjorie had also denied his request to join Ned Little's team. Ned was a renowned diagnostician for whom Martin had at least a grudging admiration. She knew that with Martin's intelligence and other talents, he would be an excellent diagnostician, maybe even one to surpass Ned, regardless of who his teacher was. She had assigned him instead to Sylvia Weston, a woman five years Martin's junior who had made caring an art and was widely-agreed to have the ideal bedside manner for a GP. Not only would Sylvia prove an understanding and tolerant mentor to Martin, as Marjorie had predicted, she also smoothed as best she could the rough edges of his people skills. There had been no doubt in Marjorie's mind that Martin could master the medical skills necessary to practice primary care medicine. But direct patient care involved interpersonal skills she hadn't been sure he possessed. In the end, though, both Sylvia and Marjorie had been proud of his success.

It hadn't been easy for him. Many of the senior doctors were younger than he was and were defensive about proving themselves superior to this once mighty consultant. He had little in common with his fellow students, who all were at least a decade younger than he was. They were fresher from medical school and, he eventually had to admit, they did know some things he didn't know – about AIDS and MRSA and HPV's link to cancer – things that hadn't been taught back when dinosaurs like him had completed their studies. None of them had to battle with a handicap as debilitating to a doctor as his haemophobia either. His struggle became widely known only a month into the course, to his chagrin, when he had actually vomited ON a patient suffering a nosebleed. He'd wanted to quit that day, sure he could never get over this hurdle. But Marjorie had sat him down and really listened to his issues. She had worked with Odd to organize a regime of desensitization training for Martin. She had also put him in contact with a phlebotomist she knew who had lost most of his eyesight but who had continued working after teaching himself to draw blood by touch. Slowly but surely Martin had found his way.

The third letter was from the search committee in Cornwall with the details of his upcoming interview. He would fly to Newquay just after the spring Bank Holiday to meet with them. They had thoughtfully included the biographies of the members of the committee. There were professional photos of all save one – a Miss Louisa Glasson of Portwenn Primary School, lay member of the committee. He idly wondered about her, picturing the village busybody – some contemporary of his Auntie Joan's, he guessed - with a weathered face and her spectacles on a chain around her neck. Surely his academic credentials would be sufficient to impress the likes of her.

The last item in the post was a square ivory envelope made of heavy laid paper. Inside was a formal invitation and as he opened it, another, smaller sheet of notepaper flutter out.

_Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Fairfax_

_Request the honour of your presence_

_At the marriage of their daughter_

_Hope Vivian_

_To_

_Michael Allan Mitchell_

_On June 11_

_At half after eleven o'clock_

_St. Stephen's Church_

_Landsdown Road_

_Bath_

_The favour of a reply is requested._

He looked at the invitation carefully before setting it aside and unfolding the note paper.

_Dearest Martin –_

_I know when you receive this, your instinct will be to sit down and write a very proper note with your regrets. If I'm lucky, you might even send a suitably Martin-like gift with your congratulations (I'm addicted to satsumas now, thanks to you). But Martin, please do come. It may seem selfish of me, but I really want to have all of my favorite people around me when I take the plunge. It just won't be the same if you aren't there._

_I have often wondered what the future might have held if we had confessed our feelings for each other under ordinary circumstances instead of in the midst of the myriad of personal, professional, medical and other crises that swirled around us. I guess we will never know. But please know that no matter what I will always admire you as a doctor and as a human being and that I treasure the friendship we eventually were able to salvage from the rubble._

_I would so love for you to meet Mick. He's a barrister – a widower with two young girls so I'm becoming a wife and a mum in one fell swoop. Wish me luck; I think I'll need it! We are deliriously happy and looking forward eagerly to building our future together._

_Martin, I know you've applied for a GP post in Cornwall – Chris Parsons called and asked me for a letter of reference. You can rest assured that I wrote a glowing one. Your new patients will be lucky to have you. I hope as you embark on this new chapter in your life, you will promise to leave yourself open to finding happiness of your own in your personal life. You are an extraordinary man, Martin, and you deserve all the joy life has to offer._

_With love,_

_Hope_

He was happy for her – he had to be. She deserved to be happy more than anyone he knew. And maybe she was right. Maybe after all he had been through, all the pain and humiliation and loss – it was time for something new.

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

Thanks to Buffalo Pictures for lending me your character for the last couple months. I think I am returning him to you in nearly the same shape as I got him.

Thanks to all you readers for sticking with me and this very long story. I couldn't have imagined how hard this story would be to write when I first had the idea of exploring the origins of Martin's haemophobia. I am especially grateful to those of you who wrote such nice reviews and encouraged me to continue writing. It meant the world to me to get those little nuggets of praise (which my 9 year old adorably calls my fan mail) whenever I sent my latest chapter out into cyberspace.

And thanks to my husband, who let me bounce ideas off of him and who agreed to read chapters for me and comment, even though he reached his Doc Martin tolerance limit months ago. He is the one who insisted that Hope needed her own happy ending and I am so glad he did.

See you around Portwenn!

Jane


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